Yours is the only ocean
by Nightengale
Summary: Sherlock jumped from the roof of Barts and Greg is left to try and help Mycroft. They are together and they are happy but will it last? [Sequel to "When the sun shines, we shine together." Mystrade]
1. Holding

Greg opens cabinets below the counter then stands up straight again to open some more above the counter. He already has a pan on the stove but, as Mycroft is not awake yet, Greg is going to use this opportunity to inspect every nook and cranny of Mycroft's immense kitchen. If Greg had to guess he'd call it twice as large as the kitchen in the house he used to own with Anne and probably four times as large as the kitchen at his flat. Greg almost can't believe such a kitchen can fit into a row home, no matter how grand. It seems like a _Doctor Who_ trick, especially with a table that can seat six in the middle of the room.

The sand marble counter top snakes across the right wall and around the corner to the back of the house. A large sink breaks up the counter at the end under a window with soft, white curtains. A standing cabinet halts the counter's progress along the wall followed by double doors into the back garden. The counter starts up again on the left wall, hitting the refrigerator in the middle, another sink and a dish washer at the very end. (Greg guesses one sink is for cleaning dishes and the other for cooking)? The bit of wall left before the main arched door way has another tall cabinet with glass doors showing off some fancy dishware and tea sets. Greg plans on never touching those.

The counters are as clean as one would expect with Mycroft, lined with various appliances such as two coffee machines, Mycroft's own French press, a four slot toaster, a blender, and a waffle iron. Ironically there does not appear to be a microwave. That is, until Greg opens a high cabinet and finds the microwave. Maybe Mycroft is trying to cut back on reheating? The cabinets, by and large, are more organized than Greg's filing cabinets at work. The plates are stacked by size, as are the bowls. The glasses are in neat rows with the mugs in the next cabinet over. There also appears to be an even number of every piece of dishware.

"I should break one and see what happens," Greg says to himself with a quiet snicker.

"I would prefer you did not."

Greg tenses slightly and bites the edge of his lip. "You enjoy doing that." He turns and looks at Mycroft standing in the entry way – it's just bigger than a doorway, he can't call it that. "How long have you been there?"

"Watching you rifle through my kitchen cabinets?"

"I wouldn't say rifle."

"Hmm."

Greg closes the cabinet door in his hand then puts his hands in his pyjama pockets. "Would you believe I was going to cook you breakfast?"

"I would."

Greg points to the pan waiting on the stove top behind him. "See."

"I'll make coffee," Mycroft says as he walks into the kitchen toward the counter beside Greg.

Greg nods and eyes Mycroft up and down, tan trousers and white button up shirt. "And in only your shirt sleeves, practically naked."

"As you've seen the real thing, I doubt it can be that enticing to you."

Greg huffs. "Now you're just being coy."

Mycroft looks at Greg and rolls up his sleeves. Greg purses his lips but does not tackle Mycroft onto the marble tiled floor, this time. Instead, Greg turns, walks around the kitchen table, and goes to the refrigerator. He finds the eggs he automatically assumed would be there and brings them back over to the stove.

"What do you want?" Greg asks.

Mycroft tilts his head and clicks a button on the drip coffee machine. "Surprise me."

"Okay."

Mycroft turns to the cabinet above the coffee pot, pulling out one mug. Greg watches him, a red mug for the second one and then Mycroft closes the cabinet again. Mycroft places them both in front of the pot. He turns to Greg still looking at him.

"Yes, Greg?"

Greg touches Mycroft arm, sliding down to his hand. "Are you... you all right?" Mycroft frowns slightly. "It's been a week now since the funeral."

Mycroft clicks his teeth and looks down at the Greg's hand on his. "I am fine." He looks up again. "Are you?"

"He wasn't my brother."

"But you would consider him someone of value to you, perhaps even a friend."

"Yes."

"Well?"

Greg breathes in once and squeezes Mycroft's hand. "I asked about you."

"And I am fine."

"Mycroft –"

"Greg," Mycroft pulls his hand away, "I would prefer to not start this morning with a discussion about my feelings toward my brother."

Greg runs his tongue over his teeth once and nods. "All right. Just breakfast then."

"Good."

Mycroft steps back from the counter toward the table where the paper for the day already lies. Greg watches Mycroft for a moment then turns back to the counter. He leans over and opens the breadbox, which is just so amusing, and pulls out the loaf inside. Greg reaches up to the cabinets again and takes out two plates. He puts a slice of bread on each then puts the loaf back.

"Could you get me butter?" Greg asks Mycroft over his shoulder.

Greg hears Mycroft's chair slide across the floor as he stands. Greg opens a drawer and pulls out a butter knife. He carefully cuts a hole in the center of each piece of bread; the butter knife is sharp enough. He pops the circular pieces of bread in his mouth then lays the edge of the knife on one plate. Mycroft's bread is very good.

Then the metal butter tray taps onto the counter beside the plates. Mycroft slides his arms around Greg's waist from behind, hands low on Greg's belly.

"Hi," Greg whispers and tilts his head back just slightly.

Mycroft breathes softly into Greg's hair, just a bit deeper on the inhale. Greg slides one hand off the counter and covers both of Mycroft's hands.

"You are a comfort, Greg, in simply being here." Mycroft's lips brush against the back of Greg's neck. "And that is all I need."

Greg squeezes Mycroft's fingers under his hand. "Then I'll be here."

––––––––––

Greg knocks on the door of the flat, four cans of Carling in his other hand. Just as he's about to knock again after ten seconds the door opens. The woman who answers looks remarkably like John.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, you're John's sister?"

"Harry, yeah."

"Is John..."

Harry nods and waves a hand behind her. "Uh, yeah, yeah. You want to come in?" As she steps out of the doorway her eyes linger on the beer in his hand then she looks back to him. "Who are you again?"

"Uh, Greg... Lestrade, friend of John's."

"Come on in then." She turns around letting go of the door so Greg has to put up a hand to catch it.

She walks down the hallway and Greg follows her, letting the door shut softly behind him. They only have to walk about two meters before her flat opens up into the living room area. John sits on the couch against the far wall, laptop on his legs. He isn't really looking at it though.

"John?" John does not move at Harry saying his name. She takes a step closer. "John?" He blinks and looks up at her. She points to Greg beside her. "Friend of yours is here."

John eyes shift onto Greg. "Greg."

"Hey." Greg nods and holds up the beer. "Brought you something."

John sighs. "I don't want it."

"You sure?"

"Really, I don't."

"Well, I'll take it," Harry says as she pulls the beer from Greg's hand.

"Harry, really?" John snaps suddenly.

"Not for me, Jesus!" She huffs and turns around back down the hall. "You'll want it later. Trust me."

Greg glances to the side as Harry walks away then back to John.

John shakes his head. "Unbelievable."

Greg takes a few steps closer and puts his hands in his pockets. "So, how're you doing?"

"Oh, just great." John pushes his laptop off his legs onto the couch. "Can't you tell?"

"Hadn't seen you since the funeral..."

"Been too busy enjoying the solo life."

"John."

John sighs. "What do you want me to say, Greg? Huh? Because you know I'm –" John cuts himself off and grits his teeth together, shaking his head.

"You don't have to say anything; I just came to see how you're doing."

"Well," John gestures with both hands to indicate the room around them, "Now you see."

"Look," Greg walks over, slides John's laptop to the side, and sits next to John on the couch. "I want to help, how can –"

"You can fuck off, Greg, all right!" John says as he jumps up from the couch. "Why don't you just go take care of Mycroft?"

Something smashes to the floor in the kitchen. John puts a hand over his eyes and gasps once.

"I am helping him," Greg replies, keeping his voice low and calm. John makes a scoffing sort of noise but does not move or walk away. Greg lays his hands flat on his thighs. "Doesn't mean I can't try and help you too, right?"

John drops his hand. "Well, you can't. There is nothing you can do for me." John sweeps a hand through the air and sniffs loudly. "The only thing you could do for me would be bring him back. Can you do that?"

"John, I'm being serious."

"So am I!" John snaps.

Greg's hands clench on his knees, a vision of Sherlock rolling his eyes and calling John idiotic flashing through his mind. Greg shakes his head. "Come on…"

"Can you find me a new flat?" John waves a hand at the wall. "I need that."

"Do you really want me –"

"No!"

Greg blows out a breath of air. "Right."

John smiles with his lips tight together and shrugs. "So."

Greg stands up from the couch. "Made your point."

John rubs a hand over his eyes. "I'm not saying I don't appreciate…" He sighs again, "…your concern." He drops his hand. "But just leave me alone."

"With your charming sister?"

John almost cracks a smile at that, glancing over his shoulder. "Yeah."

"Okay." Greg puts his hands in his pockets. "But…" John makes eye contact and Greg makes sure he keeps it. "Call, all right?" John grits his teeth. "All right?" Greg insists.

John nods. "All right."

"Good."

"So." John holds out a hand toward the door. "Good bye."

Greg nods and claps John on the shoulder giving it a brief shake. "Bye." Then he walks past John toward the door.

––––––––––

On Greg's desk are two open cases, photographs clipped to the top and one with a postmortem. He needs to finish the review and confirm on the one before he can go make the arrest, though he's nearly certain. The second one still needs a few phone calls and alibi checks. However, Greg keeps glancing at a stack to the far left on his desk, the stack of files pertaining to Sherlock. Greg sighs and tries to focus on the girl fished out of the Thames instead. He makes notes in the margins, sticks a post it at the top to follow up with the initial officer on the scene.

Voices float in through his open office door, "…don't think he was fake… and you know…"

"Come on!" Someone snaps louder, sounds like Gupta.

"I'm just say –"

"Seriously, remember that little girl…. And how she…"

Greg sighs and looks up at the windows of his office. He sees a few pairs of people talking, Clipton standing alone at the white board on the far side of the room. Donovan is sitting at her desk, hands on her keyboard but she isn't typing. Peters happens to look up and catch his gaze. He smiles in an awkward way then jerks his head back down again.

Greg looks down at the case file in front of him. Cause of death was drowning but there were signs of drugs in her system.

"…but off a building, how can –"

"Because we... what we did to him!"

Someone scoffs and Greg knows that voice was Avery. "No, no…. and blaming…"

"But –"

"Would you both knock it off!" Bell snaps loud enough that some other people grumble, 'all right,' 'really,' from around the desks.

Greg clicks his teeth together and closes the one file, sliding the other into the center of his desk.

"I just think that if he really was… how could all of…"

"If D.I. Lestrade thinks…"

"You ask him? How do you know…"

"Bollocks, everyone knows…"

Greg puts his pen down and shoves his chair back from his desk. He stands up and walks over to his office door, making sure to hit the door into the wall with a loud whack. Half the office starts in surprise and nearly all turn sharply to look in his direction.

"Enough chatter! We have cases to solve." A few people look sheepishly away. Clipton taps the white board with the dry erase marker in his hand. Greg crosses his arms. "We all have opinions on recent events but you have personal time to talk about that all you want." He leans forward just slightly and pulls out his 'angry cop stare.' "Focus on what we can do now, not what is too late to fix!"

A few people mumble 'yes, sir' and nod. Greg nods back so they all turn around to their desk, hands typing faster and feet moving quicker. Donovan steps up beside Greg and holds out a stack of about ten case files.

"The cases Sherlock worked on with us through last year."

Greg takes the stack from her hands. "Good. We still need the years before that."

"Sir, I…" Donovan clears her throat. "I'm still going through the evidence and statements from the kidnapping."

"Anything new with the daughter?"

"There is an issue with the solicitor and parents about giving us access to speak to her."

Greg sighs. "Do they not understand –"

"It is their daughter."

Greg glares at her. "Thank you, Donovan."

She clears her throat and nods. "Right."

Greg stares at her though she does not quite meet his eye. Greg holds the files against his chest with one arm and frowns. "Anderson?"

"He's…" Donovan glances behind her as if Anderson were somehow suddenly standing behind her. "He's in the forensics lab looking over evidence again from…" Donovan finally looks at Greg. "From Barts."

Greg frowns more. "He has fifteen more minutes then you tell him to move on. I know he has more recent cases he needs to process."

"Sir, he's –"

"Over doing it." Greg cocks his head. "I'll go down there if I have to. If he really wants to back pedal and help Sherlock now, then he can go through all this with his fine tooth comb." Greg motions with the stack of files.

Donovan swallows. "Yes, sir."

"And you can too."

"We were just trying to –"

"Save it, Donovan. I understand your reasons but it's back to business now."

She bites her lip but does not try to launch a speech again. Instead she nods and turns back toward her desk. Greg watches her walk away for a minute before turning around himself back into his office. He leaves the door open just in case anyone thinks they can start up the gossip again quietly enough so he won't hear.

Greg puts the files from Donovan on top of the stack on the left of his desk. He stands in front of his desk, files on most of it and his laptop on the right. He sighs and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He clicks the screen on and picks Mycroft's number in text. He wants to text 'I miss you,' 'I'm sorry,' 'come here.' Instead he texts,

_[11:39] We should get lunch today._

He clicks send then sits down. He puts the mobile on his desk and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then his mobile vibrates. Greg sits up straight and looks at the screen.

_Mycroft [11:40]: 15 minutes. I'll send a car._

Greg smiles.

––––––––––

Greg and Mycroft sit on the couch in Greg's flat. Mycroft has a small stack of papers and his laptop open on Greg's coffee table. Mycroft informed Greg that anything he might accidentally read or see off of any of the documents he, in fact, did not see. Greg only laughed and said 'pour me some of that wine you brought and I'll see nothing but you.' The eyebrow raise Greg got back was both pleased and disdainful and Greg wishes he had a photograph.

Now, Mycroft leans back against the cushions with an iPad in one hand and his other on Greg's chest as Greg lies with his head in Mycroft's lap. He has his glass of wine in one hand and 'Dr. No' in the other.

"It is interesting that it is has apparently taken you months to read a 255 page book."

Greg chuckles. "I was busy."

"Hmm."

Greg looks up at Mycroft. "Oh, you know, solving crimes, suffering press conferences, having sex."

Mycroft looks down from the iPad. "And a lucky someone to be part of that last activity."

"You would know."

Mycroft smirks and turns back to his tablet, swiping the screen. "I would." He returns his hand to Greg's chest and rubs a circle once over Greg's buttons.

Greg smiles and leans up slightly to sip some of his wine. He taps the stemless glass on the back of Mycroft's hand and Mycroft takes it from him. Greg reaches up and turns a page of his book, holding it in place again with his thumb. Then he takes the glass back from Mycroft.

"Do avoid spilling that."

"Expensive?" Mycroft only tilts his head. "Ah yes, silly question." Greg sips the wine again. "But it's no beer."

"Do you consider beer to rank higher?"

"For me, yeah."

Mycroft huffs quietly. "I suppose I hope in vain to make you sophisticated."

Greg chuckles. "You do and you wouldn't really want to change me anyway."

"Perhaps only in your alcohol choices."

Greg snorts. "Never."

Mycroft sighs but Greg sees him smiling. Greg looks back at his book and reads on as Bond finally meets Honeychile Rider. Greg chuckles as he remembers the scene from the movie, that bikini. Mycroft sighs again and drops his arm holding the iPad down onto the arm of the couch.

"Had enough?" Greg asks.

"Enough of useless Americans."

"Americans?"

"You would rather not hear about it. I can assure you."

Greg closes his book then sits up, Mycroft's hand dragging down his back as he does. Greg sets the book to the far side of the couch then leans back beside Mycroft, crossing his legs on the cushions and Mycroft's hand on his thigh now.

"Claire lived in America for a few years."

Mycroft raises both eyebrows and sets his iPad on the table. "Some girlish passion to become a designer in New York?"

Greg laughs out loud. "God, no, Seattle and it was some kind of non–profit."

Mycroft frowns. "She felt the need to cross the ocean and a continent for that?"

Greg shrugs. "She went through a wanderer stage, lived in Spain and Brazil before that."

"Not a stage you ever crossed."

"No."

Mycroft smiles.

"Came back with two dogs, vegetarianism, then met her husband Colin leading to my niece and nephew now."

"A thrilling tale."

Greg laughs. "Sorry, not trying to bore you with family history."

"You are not." Mycroft picks up his wine off the table and circles it around in the glass. He takes a drink, his fingertips tapping Greg's legs. "We once had a dog."

"You?"

"Strictly speaking it was Sherlock's dog but as I lived in the same house I was party to the same…" Mycroft rocks his head then sips his wine again, "benefits."

"He says with barely maintained control."

"Hmm." Mycroft squeezes Greg's leg once. "Dogs require a great deal of work, feeding, walking, veterinarian visits."

"But?"

Mycroft looks down at his hand. "To a boy with no friends and brother seven years his senior, a dog was a welcome companion." Mycroft looks up again, sips his wine and purses his lips. "He made the dog several pirate hats."

Greg blinks. "What?"

Mycroft smiles. "We all go through phases."

"Uh huh, what was yours then?"

"Paisley."

Greg begins to laugh, leaning his head back against the wall. He shakes his head while Mycroft smiles at him. "I'm buying you a paisley tie as soon as possible."

"Oh, I am quite fine with the ties I have now."

Greg puts his hand over Mycroft's and shakes his head. "Too late."

"And what about you?"

"What?"

"Your phase?"

"Ha," Greg finishes his glass of wine. "I had several. Chalk it up to middle child, yeah?"

Mycroft takes his hand off Greg's leg, slides a bit closer and runs his fingertips up Greg's jaw into his hair. He rubs a line a few centimeters away from Greg's eye, underneath his hair. Greg knows there is a scar there, no idea how Mycroft saw it.

"This?"

"Had a motorcycle for a few years."

"Oh dear." Mycroft pulls his hand back again, wrapping it with the other around his wine glass. "I am imagining you with a leather jacket, tight jeans and some cocky expression expecting women –" Greg raises his eyebrows. "And men to fall supplely at your feet awaiting the tender mercy of your 'bad boy' mystique."

"Don't forget my perfect hair."

Mycroft smiles. "The most preferable part to retain."

"Especially now that I work for the police."

"True."

Greg cocks his head to the side. "And are you saying you wouldn't like me in tight jeans?"

Mycroft purses his lips. "We'll have to see."

Greg smirks. "I'll put it on my 'to do' list."

"Do." Mycroft stands up, taking Greg's empty wine glass from him. He walks away and into the kitchen, returning a minute later with both glasses full of wine and the nearly empty bottle under one arm. He hands Greg's glass to him then sits down again, putting the bottle on the coffee table carefully avoiding all papers, iPad and laptop.

"Thank you," Greg says.

"Of course."

"Mycroft…" Mycroft sips his wine and raises his eyebrows at Greg. "Do you... are you..."

"Yes?"

Greg shakes his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

Mycroft's frowns slightly. "I am fine, Greg."

Greg clicks his teeth together. "Right, yeah. Not worrying."

"No?"

Greg clears his throat and sips some of his wine. Then he gestures with his wine glass over the table. "Lot more to read?"

Mycroft sighs deeply as he looks at the table. Then he turns back to Greg. "I would rather simply sit here with you."

"I have nowhere to be." He points at the table. "If you need to read more secret documents and spy reports, I can stay." Greg picks up his book again. "It is my flat after all."

Mycroft's lip quirks up. "True."

Mycroft leans forward and picks up the iPad again from the coffee table, setting it on the arm of the couch. Greg looks at the pile of papers, the laptop open and the lines under Mycroft's eyes. He opens his mouth but closes it again and presses his lips tightly together. He slides closer on the couch and runs a hand over Mycroft's hair. Mycroft glances at him but Greg cannot think of anything to say. Instead he kisses Mycroft once then turns and lies down with his head on Mycroft's leg again.

––––––––––

Greg calls Claire on a Wednesday night as he stares out of the window of his dark office, only a light on his desk lit. A faint glow comes from further out in the office, a few computers left on and the red exit signs, no one else working this late.

"Hi." He can hear Claire is smiling. "How are you?"

"All right?"

She chuckles. "Oh yeah, you sure sound it. Long week on your side?"

"Had a question."

"Yes, you look good in blue, don't let David confuse you."

Greg chuckles quietly. "Funny."

"I learned from the best." Something makes a noise in the background, plates maybe. "So, what's up?"

"What did you do when Colin's sister died?" Greg hears scuffling in the background, Claire's daughter Kate laughing and a faint whistling kettle. He counts to five. "Claire?"

She sighs. "Yeah. Hold on." The line is silent for a moment then Greg hears the distinct sound of a door closing. "All right, you want to know what I did?"

"What did you do for him? How did… how did you help him?"

"It's not as simple as all that, Greg."

Greg leans his forehead on the glass of the window. "Didn't say it was simple, I'm just asking…"

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Claire sighs again. "Just be there. What more can I say than that? It's hard; you have to go by what he does, by what he says."

"But he's not saying anything, Claire." Greg pulls his head back again and watches the cars on the street below. "He's not talking."

"I'm not saying he has to. Sometimes talking isn't what someone needs. With Colin it was pretty quiet, sometimes I just had to sit with him so he didn't feel alone or I would talk about nothing, stupid things to distract him so he'd stop being all up in his head with 'what ifs.'"

Greg nods to himself. "Just be there."

"Exactly. It's never how you expect it to be. Yes, everyone has a cry or two, a big one probably when it first happens but no one thinks about the month later, or the month after that. It surprises you then. Colin cut down our kids' tire swing in the backyard out of nowhere one day because Lara used to push him on one when he was six." She makes a soft noise like a laugh but not quite. "You just have to keep remembering that the loss is still there every day."

"That's deep, Claire."

She huffs. "You asked."

"Sorry, I know." Greg rubs the spot between his eyebrows. "I just… just don't know what to say."

"In the end there is nothing you can really do but be there until he decides he needs to break down."

Greg drops his hand and puts his palm on the window glass. "What if he never does?"

"He will, Greg."

Greg breathes in and lets it out slowly. "Right."

"Go to sleep, Greg."

"Bye." Greg drops the mobile from his ear and keeps staring at the cars passing by under the street lamps, slower and slower.

––––––––––

Greg leans against his kitchen counter beside the oven with a beer in his hand. The timer for the oven has less than five minutes to go. Beside him, Mycroft chops cucumbers on a cutting board. Greg watches Mycroft's hands, carefully chopping each slice the same size.

"Must you?"

Greg looks up at Mycroft's face and smiles. "I like your hands."

"Oh, I am aware."

Greg chuckles. "And you chop like you're going to be examined on the sizes of your slices."

Mycroft purses his lips. "I see nothing wrong with preferring uniformity."

"In your salad?"

Mycroft sighs.

Greg leans closer and kisses Mycroft's lips. "Go ahead, sigh all you want."

"I will."

Greg kisses him again and runs his free hand down Mycroft's back. Mycroft kisses Greg a third time then turns back to his cucumber. He picks up the cutting board and slides the cucumber into the salad bowl with the dull edge of the knife. Greg leans into Mycroft and watches him, tracing an indefinable pattern on Mycroft's lower back.

"You know, you told me you baked, not cooked."

"A salad is not cooking."

"Still."

Mycroft tilts his head then kisses Greg's temple. "Perhaps I just wished to assist with the meal."

"Well then, where is my pie?"

Mycroft chuckles and Greg feels the vibration against his skin. "Next time."

The timer on the oven starts to beep behind Greg. Greg stands up straight, takes a drink of his beer then puts it down on the counter. He opens the drawer beside the stove, pulling out two pot holders. He clicks off the timer then opens the oven. The heat hits him in the face but Greg turns his head to the side right away.

"Do avoid burning yourself," Mycroft chides.

Greg shoots a glance in Mycroft's direction then reaches in with the pot holders and pulls out the flank steak on its pan. He closes the oven door with his hip and puts the pan on top of the two front eyes of the stove top.

"Should let it cool just a bit."

Mycroft makes a 'hmm' noise from by the refrigerator as he closes the door. Greg looks at him and Mycroft holds up a vinaigrette dressing.

"I'll make you a dressing next time if you want," Greg says as Mycroft hands him the bottle.

Mycroft's eyebrows fly up. "You make dressing?"

"Sometimes." Greg puts the bottle down beside the salad bowl, goat cheese on top now to finish up. "Shall I toss it or would you like to?"

Mycroft chuckles. "Such a heavy responsibility."

"It would help to have tongs, right?"

Mycroft side steps to the drawer beside the refrigerator. He roots around for a moment before he comes out with salad tongs. Greg watches him, palm on the counter and his other hand tapping on his thigh. Mycroft walks back over and cocks his head. He puts the tongs into the salad bowl.

"You are worrying."

Greg cocks his head back at Mycroft. "I'm not."

"You are."

"Maybe."

Mycroft touches Greg's face. "Your expression is pensive and contemplative at once. I should paint you a picture."

"You could."

Mycroft steps into Greg's personal space though not quite touching their bodies together. His hand traces lines slowly around Greg's face. "I promise, you needn't worry about me though I know despite what I say your fears will continue."

"I wouldn't call them fears."

"Regardless, this is the longest relationship I have been in, Greg. You cannot expect me to change and open up like a book all at once."

Greg shakes his head. "I don't expect you to."

"If I say I am fine, then I am."

"I didn't ask you."

Mycroft brushes a hand over Greg's hair. "Hmm, you did."

"I am just glad you are here with me, okay?" Greg says.

"Good." Mycroft runs his fingers along Greg's jaw. "Though, I suppose it should please me that your concern runs so deeply."

Greg smiles. "You are important to me, if you hadn't noticed."

"I have." Mycroft kisses Greg. "And you still do surprise me, Greg."

"Was it the steak?" Mycroft chuckles and presses closer to Greg so they touch and Greg's back knocks softly into the counter. Greg's hands settle on Mycroft's waist. "Something else?"

Mycroft kisses Greg and smiles against his lips, "something else."

"Oh? Are we talking specifics?" Greg kisses Mycroft, bites his lip gently. "What then?"

Mycroft runs a hand over Greg's stomach. "This is my shirt."

Greg pulls his head back and looks down. "I... god, really?"

Mycroft smiles. "How often do you wear French cuffs?"

Greg holds his wrist up in front of his face then he turns back to Mycroft. "Well."

"Surprise."

"I should give it back to you then."

Mycroft crushes a kiss onto Greg's mouth, hands on Greg's buttons at the same time that Greg grabs Mycroft's neck with one hand and reaches for Mycroft's tie with his other. Mycroft pushes Greg into the counter so Greg hikes up and sits on top, pulling Mycroft flush against the counter edge. Mycroft keeps steadily going down Greg's buttons as Greg sucks Mycroft's pulse point until he groans. Greg laughs low in his throat against Mycroft's skin and pulls off Mycroft's tie.

"Don't you –"

But Greg throws the tie over Mycroft's shoulder before he can finish his sentence.

"You were saying?"

Mycroft growls, kisses and bites Greg's lips so Greg gasps. Mycroft finishes with Greg's shirt buttons as Greg unbuttons Mycroft's collar, drags his nails along the hollow of Mycroft's throat. Then Mycroft snaps open Greg's belt following quickly with his trouser button and zipper. Greg reaches lower to get at Mycroft's vest buttons but then Mycroft pulls Greg by his hips closer to the edge of the counter, knocking the salad bowl.

"Watch –"

Then Mycroft slides down to his knees and pushes Greg's legs open.

Greg breathes in sharply, bracing a hand on the cabinet beside him. "Oh god."

By the time they get to the steak it is cold.

––––––––––

The caution tape makes a diamond shape around the crime scene, broken glass everywhere with blood accenting most shards. Greg tilts his head as he stares at the one body, no cuts which he should have with all this bloody glass. If the body did not break the window then what did? Greg looks up at the house again and the second body just visible inside where Donovan stands, mobile in her hand. Greg purses his lips then crouches low beside the body. He pulls on one latex glove and pushes back some of the man's hair from his face. The victim has deep nail scratches on his cheek, likely from the dead woman inside.

"But how did you get out here…" Greg mutters.

He reaches into his pocket with his other hand and pulls out his mobile. He clicks the screen to life and pulls up Sherlock's number. Greg's thumb stops just a second soon enough before he dials. Greg stares at his mobile, at the numbers, at the name. It finally hits.

Greg sucks in a deep breath and jolts up to standing.

"Sergeant Brooks!" Greg barks and she whirls around where she stands near the edge of the caution tape. Greg points to the body. "Take a look, yeah?"

She nods. "Yes, sir."

Greg turns stiffly and marches away, ducking under the caution tape. He breathes in deeply over and over, tries to slow it down. He yanks the latex glove off his hand and half throws it toward one of the PCs as he passes. He breathes in and out and in and out and he almost slams right into his car. Greg realizes he is clutching his mobile so hard he is starting to make dents in the skin of his hand. His hand shakes and he shoves his mobile back in his pocket.

He breathes in and out again, shallow and sharp. He reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He pulls out one cigarette and puts the pack back in his pocket. His fingers slip over the cigarette, his thumb tapping over and over the end. He searches through his pockets with his other hand until he finds his lighter logically in the same pocket which has the pack. He puts the cigarette between his teeth and holds up the lighter. He flicks it open, his hands shakes and the lighter falls out of his hands hitting the pavement with a clatter.

"Fuck…" Greg takes the cigarette from his teeth and rubs his fingers hard into his forehead. "Bloody fu…"

He breathes in deeply and blows it out slowly, once then twice. He fists his hand around the cigarette breaking it in half. His nails dig into the skin of his forehead and he absently wonders if he will leave marks. He uncurls his hand and the pieces of paper and tobacco slip from his hand.

Greg feels someone come up next to him on his left. He sees them bend down in the edge of his vision. Then a hand holds out his lighter. Greg turns his head slightly and sees Peters looking back at him. His hand falls away from his forehead.

Greg looks down at the lighter then takes it. "Thank you."

Peters nods and says a quiet, "sir."

Greg turns back and stares over the roof of his car. Across the street a few people cluster on a stoop watching the police scene. He wonders how many people watched from the edges while Sherlock bled on the pavement in front of Barts.

Greg clenches his teeth and flips the lighter around in his fingers three times. He passes the lighter to his other hand then looks down at it. He takes a step back then throws the lighter over his car into the street making Peters jump in surprise. A passing taxi runs over the lighter with an audible crunch.

"Status?" Greg asks.

Peters touches Greg's arm. "Sir…"

Greg turns his head sharply and stares at Peters. Peters drops his hand.

"Status?" Greg repeats with more emphasis.

Peter stands up straighter. "Sergeant Brooks thinks she has something."

Greg nods twice. "Good, let's go."

––––––––––

Mycroft and Greg sit across from each other out at dinner. Mycroft has some angel hair pasta twirled on his fork while Greg cuts chicken. Both their mobiles are out on the table lined up against the wall. Fortunately, neither have buzzed since they sat down.

"Good?" Greg asks Mycroft with a point of his fork.

Mycroft peers down at his pasta then looks up again at Greg. "Enough."

"So you hate it?"

Mycroft chuckles appropriately. "I did not say that."

"No?"

"It is somewhat bland."

Greg smiles. "I could add some paprika and thyme. Let me check my coat pockets."

This time Mycroft laughs for real. He takes a bite of the pasta and raises his eyebrows at Greg. Greg picks up the salt and puts it down in front of Mycroft's pate.

"Best I can do."

Mycroft shakes his head. "It will not be enough."

Greg shrugs a little and spears a carrot with his fork. "I think you'll suffer through all right."

"As I must."

Greg smiles as Mycroft takes another dutiful bite. Greg holds his fork against his plate, carrot still on the end, but he does not put it in his mouth. He watches Mycroft twirling more noodles then he puts his fork down. Mycroft's eyes tick up.

"Mycroft, are you…"

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

Mycroft huffs with a smile. "It is only a disappointing dish, Greg."

"That's not what I mean."

Mycroft looks away and shakes his head once before turning back. "I am fine."

"Fine?"

"That is what I said."

"Just fine?"

"What more would you wish me to say, Greg?"

Greg huffs. "You're not fine, Mycroft, you can't be."

Mycroft drops his fork. "Greg, if I should wish to talk to you about my emotional state then I will."

"But that's just it, you haven't, not at all!" Greg insists.

"You are being dramatic, do calm down."

"Dramatic?" Greg lays his hands flat on the table and leans in. "Mycroft, your brother killed himself!"

Mycroft stares at him and says nothing.

Greg sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, that was… I'm sorry." He looks down at the table and puts two fingers against his temple, elbow on the table. "I'm just worried." He looks up again. "I don't know what is going on in your head, if you're just going to snap or…" He sighs and sits up straight again, dropping his hand down onto the table. "I want to be here and help you but you have to say something."

Mycroft folds his hands together on the table. "Greg, my brother is dead, there is nothing to say. We all must move on."

"But he was your brother!"

"Greg..."

"It's not 'nothing to say,' Mycroft. Get upset, cry, be angry at him, something! It's not just nothing and move on."

Mycroft frowns. "My relationship with my brother is far different than yours with your siblings. You cannot expect me to react as you foresee you would."

"But I expect you to react!"

"You cannot tell me how I should react, Greg!" Mycroft snaps. "There is no 'should' in such things!"

Greg stares at Mycroft for a beat then looks away at the wall, a crack snaking its way up from the height of their table to the molding at the ceiling. A small, generic painting of a wine bottle hangs on the wall centered over their table. Greg wants to knock it off kilter.

Greg nods once and turns back to Mycroft. "You're right."

"I understand you are concerned," Mycroft says, "but you do not need to be."

"But I'm going to be."

Mycroft smiles, small as if Greg just told him he was beautiful. "I know."

"I still want you to talk to me or know you can at least."

"I know."

"So, just…" Greg reaches out over the table and puts his hand on Mycroft's clasped hands. "Don't go breaking down without me there."

Mycroft chuckles quietly as he looks down at their hands. "I assure you, I will not."

"That's all I ask."

"But," Mycroft looks up again, "do desist in pushing me; that is all I ask."

"What if you need pushing?" Greg asks quietly.

"Please."

Greg stares at Mycroft, his face, their hands, wants to pull him close and keep him there. Greg swallows once then nods. "I won't push."

Greg squeezes Mycroft's hands then Mycroft pulls his away to pick up his fork again. Greg lays his hand on the table for a moment then pulls back again.

––––––––––

Greg, Donovan, and Anderson work around the table in the small private conference room of their division. Piles of case files sit in the middle with more in front of each of them.

"Sherlock didn't solve this one," Donovan says holding up a case file.

Greg looks up. "Which one?"

"With the ginger boy, murder of his father? We solved that one, I remember."

"Yeah, but Sherlock did come to the scene."

Donovan cocks her head. "Really?"

Greg nods, "did his sweep and found some evidence we'd missed but…"

Donovan shrugs. "But what?"

"He said something to PC Clipton and Clipton punched him in the face." Anderson looks up from the case file in front of him. "Lestrade suggested he stay away after that."

Donovan snorts and laughs once. Then her face freezes and she slowly frowns. "Right…"

"This is a waste of time!" Anderson snaps.

Greg and Donovan look at him.

"Philip…" Donovan taps her case file. "We have to –"

"We do not. We already know the truth. He was a fake!"

Greg crosses his arms. "You've already said this. We are going to –"

"It is ridiculous. You know what happened; you saw that little girl and the easy jumps he was making. It was obvious. Sherlock was always a fake!"

"He might have been," Donovan says, "but we need to –"

"Waste our time and make us look like idiots?"

"Anderson!" Greg snaps. "We all know what happened and we all know how it spiraled out of control. But if we are going to do our jobs properly now that means we check over every case Sherlock worked on or closed or breathed near and we figure out if there were any errors, any steps, any conclusions which could not have been made without prior knowledge. We check them all to see if we find anything!"

Anderson scoffs loudly. "Ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? Right." Greg stands up. "Look at these! You tell me these cases, these closed cases, were wrong. You tell me that all these criminals did not do it, that it was Sherlock behind all these."

"Sherlock could have encouraged others to –"

Donovan sighs and knocks her knuckles on the table. "It sounds more far-fetched for you to say –"

"To say that he was a psychopath? That he couldn't have influenced all these people to do what they did just so he could solve it and have the glory? Right. That is far-fetched for the great Sherlock Holmes!" Anderson stands up and tosses the file in front of him toward Greg, scattering papers. "He was a bloody psychopath. Who knows what he could have done with all of his mind games and serial killers and that mad smile every time he was at a crime scene!"

"Stop it!" Donovan snaps.

"He was a fake! He had to be!"

"You can't just keep saying it. We might have been wrong, you know –"

"You're saying that now, Sally, and didn't you hate him most of all? You're the one who said enough times he'd be murderer in the end, right?"

"Enough!" Greg shouts.

Donovan and Anderson both look at him. Donovan crosses her arms on the table, shaking her head. She flips open the file in front of her and picks up her pen again. Anderson just stares at Greg.

Greg leans forward and points at the case files. "This is what we need to do and you are going to do it." Anderson's teeth clench. Greg shakes his head. "You started this and you're going to bloody finish it."

"We all thought it. We were all thinking it then. He was a fake."

"Yes, you made me doubt for all of ten minutes and I'm not going to forget you did that." Greg glances at Donovan. "Either of you."

She breathes out slowly through her nose and clicks her tongue. "Yes, sir."

"We were sure," Anderson says softly, "we were."

"And you were wrong."

"We…" Anderson's eyes dart over all the case files. "We couldn't have known he would…" He looks at Greg again. "We had to've been right about him."

Greg frowns. "Then sit down and find out." Greg picks up the case file and gathers up the papers which flew from it. He takes two steps closer to Anderson and drops the case file on the table in front of Anderson. "Prove it, if you're right, instead of just going over my head with theories."

Anderson sucks in a loud breath. "I… if I don't… it could… I mean…"

"Sit down," Greg says with weight on each word.

Anderson sits down. Greg turns and walks back to his chair, sitting down as well.

"It wasn't our fault." Donovan looks up at Greg then turns to Anderson. "No matter what we said it was his choice to jump."

Anderson sniffs hard and looks away from her.

"We can't blame ourselves."

"We can a little," Greg says.

Donovan jerks her head around and frowns. "I can blame me for being wrong, for suspecting something that may or may not have been true but I did not push him off that building. He did that himself. His choice."

Greg watches her for a moment then nods. "All right."

After a minute Anderson whispers, "But maybe we did… maybe we did push him."

––––––––––

Greg stands in the doorway to Mycroft's office for a full minute before Mycroft looks up from his laptop and notices Greg standing there. He frowns for an instant at seeing anyone but it morphs into a smile when he realizes the person is Greg.

Greg smiles back. "Hi."

Mycroft glances at his wall clock then back to Greg. "Hello. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"There usually is one."

"For me or for people?"

Mycroft taps a key on his laptop. "People more than you."

"Well, it's not really a reason," Greg nods and steps into the office, holding up the tall paper cup in his hand, "but I brought you coffee."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, expression dubious. "Did you?"

"Don't worry, it's a kind you like."

"As in you made it fresh?"

"As in I bought it from that place with the gold door handles I scoffed at the last time we were there."

"Ah." Mycroft leans back in his chair. "I believe you said something about 'pretentious' and 'landed gentry.'"

Greg frowns and taps a finger on the coffee cup. "Don't think I did."

"Perhaps I just heard that."

"Inside your head."

Mycroft sighs and crosses his arms. "Have you come to deliver coffee or simply show your cheek?"

"Deliver?" Greg snorts. "I am ranking with your couriers now?"

"So, cheek?"

Greg smiles and steps around Mycroft's desk, holding out the coffee. Mycroft sits up in his chair and takes the cup. He sniffs it once then puts it down on his desk. He glances at his laptop but must decide no sensitive materials are in view as he only looks back to Greg.

Greg chews the edge of his lip. "I haven't asked you…"

"What?"

"About the whole 'Genius Detective is a Fake' thing."

Mycroft frowns briefly and Greg nods toward the newspaper visible behind and to the left of Mycroft on a shelf. Mycroft glances at the shelves against the wall then breathes in slowly and out again.

"We are both fully aware of the reality of Sherlock's abilities as well as the sensationalist nature of the press."

"You don't think I believed it, even though I went to arrest him?"

"I understand the nature of duty, Greg, even where Sherlock did not."

Greg smiles. "True."

"And what the press chose to print and believe is of little consequence in the grand scheme nor is Sherlock here to be hurt any longer by their claims, true or false as they may appear."

Greg nods and fists one hand. "Yeah."

"In other words, Greg, I have no regard or care for any of it. I have far more pressing and important things within my control."

Greg chuckles once. "And don't I know."

"Oh, if only you really did, my dear."

Greg flushes and is distracted enough by Mycroft saying 'my dear' to not be particularly bothered by the slight condescension. Mycroft clears his throat and glances around the room in a few directions before he comes back to Greg. By that time Greg is smiling again.

"Well," Greg rocks back and forth on this heels, "I really had no other reason for coming by."

"It is not a negative."

"Good."

Mycroft purses his lips. "I do, however, need to return to my work."

"Your secret classified work?"

"Among other tasks."

"I should also probably fight some crime on the mean streets of London."

Mycroft laughs once, real and just a little surprised. Greg flashes a grin then turns to walk out again.

"Wait."

Greg shifts his weight back and looks over his shoulder at Mycroft. Mycroft opens his mouth then looks as if he forgot what he wanted to say. He clears his throat and grips the arm of his chair. Greg turns and takes two steps closer up against Mycroft's chair. He leans over, touches Mycroft's neck and kisses him.

"Bye," Greg says against Mycroft's lips.

Mycroft smiles and kisses Greg back. "Good bye."

––––––––––

"All right, I need more than this."

"Sir, the evidence is completely –"

"Not enough, Brooks."

Avery holds up his hand. "The hairs we found?"

"It's her boyfriend's flat," the new sergeant from Manchester says – Greg is pretty sure his name is Matthews. "We can't call that proof."

"It's proof she was there at the right time."

Matthews taps the papers in front of him with the back of his hand. "It proves she was there any time; it is not evidence!"

"Except that it is."

"Okay, don't split hairs about it," Donovan chides. Avery and Brooks snort in amusement so Donovan rolls her eyes. "You know what I meant."

"You did that on purpose," Brooks whispers.

"And moving on!" Greg says a touch louder than necessary. He raps his knuckles on the white board. "We've got the girlfriend Sarah, we've got the flat mate Dustin and…" He points at Banks near the back. "The blood we found not from the victim?"

"Uh…" Banks flips the paper in his hand over. "Nothing yet… no match?"

"Is it a question?"

"Anderson is… well, he was supposed to…" Banks clears his throat. "Let me go and check on it."

Greg crosses his arms but nods a yes. Banks stands up and hurries out of the room. Greg glances at Donovan but she just shakes her head.

"Right." Greg turns around to face the board, circling the outstanding evidence with the red marker. "We've got time of death and the two suspects with evidence that could be easily argued away in court." He turns around again. "So find me something more. Matthews." He looks at the man and narrows his eyes. "Matthews?"

"Yes, sir."

"Matthews, follow up on the whereabouts of our boy for that night." He then points at Brooks. "Brooks, statements from the neighbors, go over those and work your cross reference time line magic."

She chuckles. "Will do."

"Donovan, follow Banks."

"I…"

Greg snaps his fingers. "Now."

She hops up, nearly dropping her paper work and heads toward the door. Greg breathes in deeply and taps the white board with the dry erase marker. "Avery, you move on to the Tesco robbery murder. Make sure it's processed. All of you, any press questions please send to me."

"Yes, sir," Avery says, echoed a moment after by the rest of the room.

"All right." Greg puts down the pen and claps his hands together. "Let's to it."

Everyone stands and files out into the hall, turning left and right to their respective tasks. Greg gives Matthews a supportive nod then walks to his office. He has two press releases to write and pass along to be approved and then he has a closed case to read and sign off on. And he has to find out what is going on with Anderson.

Greg walks through his office door to see a gold box on his desk. He smiles instantly. He stands in the doorway for a moment just looking at the box then he steps forward. Greg puts his papers down to the side and picks up the box. The box is taller than it is wide and lighter than Greg expects. Wrapped around the middle is a thin gold ribbon with a tag hooked through. Greg flips the tag over:

_Do not shake me._

Greg's eyebrows furrow and he looks down at his desk again where there rests a matching gold envelope. Greg picks up the envelope, looks back and forth between the two, then puts the box down. He flips open the envelope and pulls the card inside out.

_Come to my house after you are finished at work._

–_M. Holmes_

Greg chuckles, "yes, sir."

He puts the envelope and card back down on the desk. He sits down in his chair then reaches for the box, sliding the ribbon off over the top. He finds the box's flap on the top and opens it up. Inside is what appears to be tissue paper wrapped tightly around something. He reaches in and pulls the whole thing out. Unwinding the tissue paper, Greg finds a champagne glass inside with a swirling pattern rising up the stem and around the lower half of the glass. Greg huffs a quiet breath out watching the light catch in the glass.

Greg picks up his mobile, clicks Mycroft's number and holds the phone to his ear. He speaks as soon as the line connects. "What time?"

Mycroft makes a soft, pleased noise. "I said when you are finished at work, did I not?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"This is a champagne glass; you don't need to send me a champagne glass to get me to come to your house."

"Am I not permitted to?"

"But you have a reason."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I can tell."

Mycroft huffs. "Nonsense."

"The box is gold."

"I have sent you a gift in gold before."

"Yes, at Christmas, because you were apologizing." The line is silent and Greg puts the champagne glass down on his desk. "So?"

"I notice that it has been… it has been six months since our first evening out to dinner." Mycroft clears his throat. "I felt perhaps it was an occasion worth marking, especially with my usual short term habits in this area."

"You're saying it's our anniversary?"

"I did not say that."

Greg smiles and touches his knuckles to his temple. "Of course not."

The line is silent for a moment then Mycroft says quietly, "It's… it's what one normally does, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Greg looks at the champagne glass then reaches out and twists it around by the stem. "I'll see you at seven."

Mycroft breathes out audibly. "Perfect."

––––––––––

"Hi!"

Greg grins and holds up his present. "And fifty arrives."

David rolls his eyes. "Don't be jealous." He takes the present then flashes a smile at Mycroft beside Greg. "He got you to come!"

"As you see."

David snorts. "Oh, I do. Right, come on in. Welcome to the party."

They step inside the house behind David, Mycroft closing the door as they do. Greg takes off his coat then takes Mycroft's from him, hanging both on the coat stand to the left. Mycroft breathes in audibly and Greg runs a hand down Mycroft's back.

"You can hide in the corner if you like."

"Why would I do that?"

Greg glances at Mycroft. "Or you could talk to everyone."

Mycroft sighs.

"Are you two going to walk any further than the front door?" David asks, poking his head in from the living room.

Greg grins and pushes Mycroft forward at the small of his back. "Bite the bullet."

David laughs. "Come on, Claire wants you."

"As usual when she's stuck with you," Greg says as they round the corner.

"No, no." David shakes his head and points at Mycroft. "You."

Mycroft frowns instantly but turns it quickly into a thin smile as they come into the living room. Greg glances at Mycroft then looks around the room. He sees David's wife Jane putting out a plate of cheese on the coffee table in the middle of the room. A number of David's friends sit on the couches, beers and wine in hand. David's sons are huddled in a corner all hunched over their mobiles. Claire's husband Colin is sitting on a chair by the window, grinning at some story David's best mate Rob is telling.

"Oi!" Greg turns at the sound of Claire's voice. He sees her by the far wall and she waves at them to come over.

"Claire's calling," Greg says.

"Oh, I heard her."

Greg chuckles. "I don't think you'll find anyone else you'll suffer to talk to here."

"I have you."

"Often."

Mycroft looks at him. "Was that a joke?"

"Was it?"

"Oi!" Claire calls again.

Mycroft frowns and they both walk around the couches and people over to Claire. She grins and waves a hand at their empty hands.

"What, no drinks?"

"Is it required?" Mycroft asks tersely.

"Like you wouldn't want one." She wiggles a finger at Mycroft. "I know all about your sociability." She takes a big gulp of her wine. "Or lack thereof."

"Charming."

"I am as you find me." She nods her head at Greg. "What about you?"

"Magic me a beer then."

"John!" Claire barks. Greg and Mycroft turn around to see Claire's son pop into the room from the door to the kitchen. "Get your uncle a beer."

John disappears back through the door.

"You have your eleven year old fetch the beer?" Mycroft asks.

"Well, he's twelve now."

"Oh, of course."

Greg laughs and shakes his head. "So, you desired my Mycroft?"

Claire grins. "Desired?"

Mycroft glances at Greg. "My Mycroft?"

"Bothered?"

"No," Claire and Mycroft say together.

Greg smiles.

"Well, I just wanted to see up close and personal how Mycroft manages at his first Lestrade party. You should be warned most of these," she waves her wine hand around the room to indicate the guests, "will be pissed in two hours."

"That long?"

Claire snorts and sips her wine again. "You want to race? If you're going to run with the Lestrades you'll need to keep up." She taps her nails on her wine glass and raises her eyebrows at Mycroft.

"If you knew more of my brother's habits you would avoid such an undertaking."

"Oh ho!" Claire taps her teeth on the edge of her glass. "But are you really your brother?" Claire leans closer. "Unless you and my brother are running in a gang now?"

That makes Greg and Mycroft laugh together.

Greg squeezes Mycroft's hand. "I'll get you a wine so you can start your race."

"Joy."

"Make it a full glass!" Claire says as Greg turns toward the kitchen.

Greg throws a sloppy salute over his shoulder at her. He meets John on his way toward the kitchen and retrieves his beer bottle from his nephew. John smiles, glances at Mycroft then back to Greg. He fidgets but does not run away again.

Greg raises both eyebrows. "Yes, John?"

John nods his head toward behind Greg. "He your new boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"What about Aunt Anne then?"

"I know your mother has told you we're divorced. It's not necessarily bad, John, just different."

John frowns and huffs, "I know but..."

"Don't worry, you'll still see her, I'm sure."

"Well, yeah, she's here." John points into the kitchen. "But I meant... well, is it forever?"

Greg frowns. "Wait, back up, what?"

John points at the kitchen again. "She's here."

"Could you… just…" Greg holds up a finger to John then walks around him into kitchen.

Inside, Anne leans against the counter next to the sink talking to Jane's brother, Michael. She wears a yellow shirt, black trousers, high red heels and holds a nearly empty glass of white. Greg stops in the doorway, closes his eyes once then opens them again. Anne is looking at him.

"Hi, Greg."

"Hi." He cocks his head. "What are you doing here?"

"Jane invited me."

"Right." Greg nods and takes a big swig of his beer. "Okay." Greg nods at Michael then points behind them. "Could you hand me a glass?" Anne turns around and pulls a pint glass out of the cabinet. Greg shakes his head. "No, wine glass."

"Did Claire break hers?" Anne says with a soft laugh.

"Uh, no."

Michael reaches onto the shelf then hands Greg a wine glass. Greg puts his beer down and picks up an open bottle of red off the island counter in front of him. He pours in a healthy amount and puts the bottle back down. Anne watches him silently. Greg picks up both drinks then nods at them as he turns away.

"Greg." Greg turns back to Anne. Her eyes tick to the wine glass. "He's here, isn't it?" She looks up at Greg's face again. "The man you're seeing?"

Greg nods. "Yeah." Then he turns and walks out the door into the living room.

As he walks over, Greg sees Mycroft has that tight, professional smile on his face as Claire talks to him. Greg takes another large gulp of his beer and questions his sanity in forcing Mycroft to come to this party. Greg reaches the pair and hands Mycroft his wine, Mycroft taking an almost too large gulp as soon as the glass is in his hand.

"Just telling Mycroft about the fun that will be Christmas this year."

"Because you're hosting?"

"Because I am hosting!" She grins. "True, Greg would cook if he was hosting but he'll be doing that anyway at my Christmas."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Also, I've told Mycroft I am going to throw him a birthday party." Mycroft sighs and takes another sip of his wine. Claire shoots Mycroft a look but keeps grinning. "He won't tell me when it is though. Greg?"

Greg takes a drink of his beer. "Anne's here."

"What?" Claire hisses as Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up.

Greg nods. "In the kitchen. Jane invited her."

"Oh, come on. Why would she do that?"

"She always liked Anne."

"But..." Claire takes a drink of her wine. "But yeah, I know that, but wouldn't she have had more sense? How long has it been?"

Suddenly, David slides in between Greg and Mycroft. "So, wanted to warn you, Anne is here."

"We know," Greg and Claire say together.

"Charming," Mycroft mutters.

David claps Mycroft on the back. "You should go say hi! You two can compare notes."

Greg chokes and nearly spits beer all over Claire.

"David, really." Claire sighs and rolls her eyes.

"I'd rather not," Mycroft says toward David with venom.

David purses his lips and squeezes Mycroft's side, making Mycroft jerk and glare even more. "I think I've upset him."

"Well, it's your birthday."

David smiles at Greg then puts on a contrite expression and turns to Mycroft. "Sorry, Mycroft, good luck in the duck and cover." David looks at Claire. "When do I get to open my presents?"

"When you act your age."

David sighs. "Never is an awfully long time, Claire."

She smiles. "Pity. I bought you the best present."

"Oh, I'll judge that."

"Greg." Mycroft puts a hand on Greg's back. "Might we step outside?"

"Oh, shit," David and Claire say together.

"He just wants a cigarette," Greg says.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Greg."

"All right, all right." Greg pulls Mycroft close and kisses his cheek. He looks at Claire and David. "Be right back."

They step away from David and Claire, the two of them grinning like they're fifteen and ten again, Claire bouncing slightly on her heels. David gives Greg a quick apologetic look then nudges Claire in the side with his elbow.

"Sorry," Greg says to Mycroft, "but seems you're doing all right."

"'All right' is a relative term, especially as we have been here less than fifteen minutes."

"But I am happy you came with me. Thank you."

Greg sips his wine. "Of course."

"Well, hello."

Greg and Mycroft halt in their tracks with Anne abruptly standing before them.

"Anne," Greg says awkwardly.

Anne holds out her hand to Mycroft. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Anne, though Greg hasn't told me your name."

"Likely because you no longer speak to each other but rarely." Mycroft grips her hand once then let's go.

Anne swallows and nods. "Ah, yes, I suppose that's true."

She smiles a little and waits. When Mycroft says nothing else, Greg sighs and holds out his hand toward Mycroft. "Anne, this is Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft? Interesting name."

"Certainly more so than Anne."

Anne laughs awkwardly. "Yes..."

"If you would excuse us, Greg and I had something to attend to." Mycroft grips Greg's arm at his elbow and yanks them around Anne before Greg or Anne can say another word.

They weave through people, narrowly miss being run over by Kate chasing John and then they walk out the front door. Once outside, Mycroft hands his wine to Greg while pulling his cigarettes from his coat pocket.

"Had to be rude? It was the first time you met her, you know."

"I wanted to be."

"We're both going to have to see her. She has a relationship with my family."

Mycroft holds a cigarette between his teeth and gives Greg an incredulous look. "She slept with another man while she was married to you and then demanded a divorce. I do not see how you should be upset I was rude to her."

"She's still part of the family. My nieces and nephews have grown up with her. When we see the family, she might be there too."

"Just how often are these family functions?"

"Mycroft..."

Mycroft sighs and lights the end of his cigarette, breathing deeply. "Madness."

"Sorry, part of my package."

"I do hope that isn't a joke."

"Not this time."

Mycroft sucks in some more smoke and stares out at the street. He frowns and taps ash off into the air. He looks away down the street, stepping to the edge of the stoop.

"Hey," Greg slides over to Mycroft and wraps an arm around his back. "I know this isn't easy for you, so thank you."

"You've already thanked me."

"Well, I wanted to again."

Mycroft blows out smoke and looks at Greg. "Your family is not horrible, Greg."

"Not horrible?"

Mycroft sighs. "What more do you want from me? I am here."

"I'm not accusing, just... you know David and Claire enough and they want you here. They are the most important but there's more people too, all right?"

"I am here." Mycroft sucks in some more smoke.

"I ask no more." Greg rests his face against the side of Mycroft's. "Don't stop trying, all right, for me?" Mycroft takes another quick drag of his cigarette though he does not move away from Greg. Greg smiles and speaks against Mycroft's hairline. "Please?"

Mycroft sighs again and his free hand finds Greg's. "I'll try."

Greg chuckles and kisses Mycroft's cheek. "Perfect." He leans away. "Now, you finish that then let's go back in and help David celebrate turning fifty."

"As you wish."

Much later Greg will look back on this night and realize it was the tipping point.


	2. Pushing

Greg jerks awake and flings his arm across the bed, smacking the pillow beside him with his palm. Fortunately Mycroft is no longer in bed or it would have been his face. Greg blinks twice and breathes out heavily.

"Unsettling dream?"

Greg sighs and lies back again. "No, just 'think I missed my alarm' wake up."

Mycroft smiles as he picks a tie from his closet. "You have not yet."

Greg turns his head to the side and squints at the clock. Then he turns back to Mycroft, now looping a light blue tie around his neck. "Why are you already up?"

"Early to bed, early to rise?"

"You don't go to bed early."

Mycroft pulls the knot of his tie tight against his collar. "Half right then."

"So, meeting?"

"Terrorism never sleeps, Greg."

"Since it's a concept and not a person."

Mycroft buttons the top button of his vest and narrows his eyes at Greg. "Is it entirely appropriate for you to be cheeky before your alarm has gone off?"

Greg grins and stretches against the sheets. "Is it?"

Greg's pants hit him in the face. He slides them off and frowns. "Thanks." He pulls them on underneath the covers then sits up. "Is that all I get?"

"Have you lost the ability to stand?"

Greg huffs. "Well, you already are."

Mycroft glances around at the floor. "Your trousers are somewhere, I am sure."

Greg laughs and rubs a hand over his hair. "If you let me leave suits here then I'd have some in your closet."

Mycroft jerks around from where he stands at his dresser. "I… you… you never asked."

"Well, seemed presumptuous."

"But you're asking now."

"I didn't actually ask."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Greg."

"I've got a point, know you can see that."

"I…" Mycroft clears his throat. "You do." He picks up his suit jacket from the hanger on the door of his closet then turns and walks out of the bedroom.

"Is that a yes or a no?" Greg calls after him.

Mycroft does not respond.

Greg rubs his forehead but decides he may as well get up too since he is awake. Greg stands up from Mycroft's king size bed and picks up his mobile from the side table, turning off the alarm. He probably has enough time to get home and get a fresh set of clothes; though even if he came into work in the same black suit, who would notice? Greg looks around and finds his trousers, white shirt, and tie on a chair. He is pretty sure his suit jacket is downstairs. Greg ducks into Mycroft's bathroom for a few minutes, skipping the shower for now, then forces himself into his clothes. He just stuffs the tie in his trouser pocket for now.

Downstairs, Mycroft is tapping keys on his laptop in the living room by the window. He has a coffee at his right hand on the table still steaming in the sunlight. Greg watches Mycroft's back from the foot of the stairs for a moment and thinks how he wouldn't mind seeing this every morning. Greg glances down the hall and sees his suit jacket draped over the back of a chair. He steps off the stairs and goes to retrieve his jacket. Putting his arms though, he moves the tie from his trouser pocket to his jacket pocket.

"Where is my wallet…" Greg mutters, answering his own question when he sees it in a glass dish on the table beside the chair, along with his keys. He smiles. "Ah ha."

He puts his wallet in his back pocket, keys in a front pocket then walks back over to the room where Mycroft is.

"Hey."

"Yes?" Mycroft says without looking at Greg.

"Going to head out, clean clothes and all."

Mycroft turns around partway in his chair. His eyes flick up and down Greg once. "Wise decision."

Greg looks down at himself, arms to the side. "What?"

"Would do not to smell too much like sex?"

Greg laughs suddenly. "Well, all right."

Mycroft smiles and turns back around to his laptop. Greg watches Mycroft and chews the edge of his lip. Greg scratches the back of his head, takes one step forward but steps back again in the next second.

"Right," his whispers. Then he clears his throat. "I'll see you later then."

Mycroft looks back over his shoulder. "Good bye."

Greg nods. "Bye."

––––––––––

Greg paces back and forth, case file in his hand.

"We know part of his choice is hair color," Brooks says as Greg paces in front of her, "all blonds."

"And all over thirty but under forty," Greg fills in then waves a hand, "approximately."

"It's the locations," Brooks continues as she steps closer to the white board.

Greg snaps his file closed. "Right. Some at home, some at work, some straight off the tube, all over the map." He turns around. "Speaking of, where is the map?"

"Here." Bradford comes around the corner just as Greg asks the question. "Added the tracer lines you asked about." Bradford shoos Brooks to the side. He then magnets the map to the white board, mostly out of the way of the victim photos.

Brooks backs up and stands beside Greg, Bradford sliding into line on the other side of Greg a moment later. They all stare at the board, arms crossed.

"It's not coffee shops is it?" Bradford says quietly.

Brooks snickers. "God, I hope not."

Greg cocks his head. "But you have a point, easy preying ground for young professionals. Thirty crowd needs their coffee."

"Check it?" Bradford asks.

"Check it," Greg affirms.

Greg hands Bradford the case file with all the crime scene information and he jogs off toward his desk to check locations. A few seconds later, Anderson walks over and stops beside Greg. Greg turns to him and raises his eyebrows.

Anderson nods. "Uh, yes, same drug with Alice Martin as with the other victims."

"Wonderful," Brooks mutters and flips her hair. "I love serial killers."

Anderson starts slightly and stares at her. Then he crosses his arms and shakes his head hard.

"Anderson?" Greg asks.

He looks at Greg then shakes his head again. "Uh, nothing, nothing. Just… well, it's very Sherlock." He clears his throat and points at the map. "This case."

Greg stares at Anderson for a moment then sighs. "Yeah, you could say so."

"What about a correlation to where they were picked up and where they were dumped?" Brooks asks suddenly.

"Didn't think we found one?"

"But there could be!" Brooks steps up closer to the map. "I mean… maybe." She twirls around to face them, pointing a finger. "I want to check something!"

Brooks holds up a hand as she turns, pulling out her mobile, and walking in the opposite direction. Anderson and Greg look at each other then back to the board. Greg keeps eyeing the map, up and down, across and back. What is it about the locations?

"It would be good to have Sherlock now, wouldn't it?" Anderson says. Greg turns to him and Anderson looks back at him. "Can't you see him connecting the dots?"

"He's not here, Anderson, and we can connect the dots just as well."

"No, of course not but, I mean, what if."

"What if what?" Greg frowns. "What if Sherlock were here?"

Anderson's face changes and he is suddenly smiling, smiling so much more than he should be. "Yes, exactly, yes! What if he were here?"

Greg uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on his hips. "Anderson, we are going to solve this case. It's not–"

"That's not what I mean," Anderson insists. "I mean, what if Sherlock were here, now, alive!"

Greg puts up a hand. "Anderson, calm down."

"I am ca…" Anderson breathes in deeply then nods slowly. "I'm calm."

"What's going on with you?" Greg asks.

Anderson rubs his hands together, looks over his shoulder toward the empty room then back. "What if Sherlock is alive?"

Greg sighs. "I've told you, Anderson, yes, Sherlock was a help but we do know how to do our jobs."

"No, I don't mean hypothetically, I mean really!"

"What?"

"What if Sherlock is alive?"

Greg stares at Anderson for two beats. "Alive?"

"Yes, alive, walking, breathing, alive!"

"He jumped from the roof of Barts, Anderson, what in the hell are you talking about!"

Anderson breathes in through his nose and holds up his hands. "Just listen, just… what if he didn't? What if he faked his death?" Greg opens his mouth but Anderson waves his hand. "Wait, wait, just hear me out, all right?"

Greg bites his teeth together but his shoulders sag and he shakes his head. "All right."

Anderson beams. "Say with the accusations against him –"

"Yours."

Anderson glares, "and the web weaved by Jim Moriarty, Richard Brook, whoever... Say there was a reason, a reason he had to hide…"

"And?"

"So, he fakes his death and goes into hiding now so that later he can come back!"

"Come back?"

"Yes, so he can come back when the accusations prove false and it is safe again for him to –"

"Right, enough!" Greg cuts Anderson off curtly, sweeping a hand through the air between them. "That's enough."

"But –"

"Look, Anderson, I know you feel guilty about what happened, that's understandable, but I'm sorry, Sherlock is gone. It's not fake. John Watson watched him fall. You can't fake that."

"Sherlock could."

Greg breathes in slowly. "You need rest, Anderson. Maybe you should take a day or two off, yeah? Clear your head."

Anderson shakes his head. "I don't need to clear my head. It's –"

"It sounds mad, Anderson!"

Anderson gasps once and stares at Greg in shock. He puts his hands on hips and looks down at the floor. Then he sighs and looks up again. "You're right, it… it sounds mad."

Greg clicks his teeth. "Look, take the rest of the day, just go home."

Anderson breathes in slowly. "I'll show you," Anderson whispers and holds up a finger. "I will. It's true."

"Anderson…"

Anderson turns and walks briskly away from Greg without another word. He passes Brooks on his way out, nearly knocking into her. She turns in place to watch him go then continues walking in.

She frowns as she reaches Greg. "Something happen?"

Greg shakes his head and crosses his arms again. "I hope not." He looks at the paper in her hand, toward the map on the board then back to her. "It's the tube stations, isn't it?"

She nods. "Think so."

––––––––––

Greg and Mycroft sit across from each other at a small table by the window with coffees between them. Mycroft has an espresso and Greg's is a tall black, something to zap his brain back into order what with some of their cases lately. Mycroft currently clicks away on his blackberry before slipping it back into his pocket. He sighs and takes a sip of his espresso.

"Rough day?" Greg asks.

"I would qualify it a month."

Greg smiles and rubs his thumb over Mycroft's hand. Mycroft looks down at their hands. He is smiling when he looks up again.

"How long do you have before it's back to the desk?"

Mycroft pulls out his pocket watch with his other hand and clicks it open. "Not long enough."

Greg huffs a quiet laugh. "Remember when you told me you had to schedule in coffee breaks?"

Mycroft closes his pocket watch. "Do you think this one was not on my calendar?"

"Was it?"

Mycroft just takes another sip of his espresso. Greg shakes his head and sits up straight again, drinking some of his coffee, starting to cool off now.

"How goes your serial killer case?" Mycroft asks.

"The tube one?" Greg sighs. "Close. Has to be, what with…" Greg cuts himself off thinking of their most recent victim, blue eyes and no feet. He looks at Mycroft again and smiles in a thin line. "It's close."

Mycroft only nods, tapping a finger on the handle of his espresso cup. They both turn to gaze out of the window, thin traffic and people passing by carrying shopping bags. Greg thinks about Italy and the smell of distant sunflowers.

Then Mycroft's cup clinks. "I must go."

Greg turns back and looks at his own watch. He sighs. "Right."

They stand up at the same time, Greg picking up his paper coffee cup to take with him. Mycroft holds his arm out and Greg walks in front of him toward the door. They step out onto the sidewalk then turn right together. Mycroft's office is closer and they'd decided to skip his black car this time what with it being warm out. The sky is gray above them and just as Greg starts to think it, rain drops begin to fall.

"The one time we walk," Greg mutters and then the rain bursts, increases, and in less than minute rain cascades down on them.

Greg puts his hands up over his head instinctively. Then Mycroft grips Greg's free wrist and pulls him close. Mycroft opens his umbrella over the two of them, just enough space for two when they stand chest to chest.

"There." Mycroft smiles.

Greg glances up at the black fabric then back to Mycroft. "So, it's a real umbrella? Not a sword or something?

"That's my other umbrella."

"Good for us."

Mycroft cocks his head. "Did you think I never used my umbrella for its intended purpose?"

"Well, you look good with a prop."

Mycroft purses his lips and Greg grins.

Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. He clicks the screen then puts it to his ear. It takes two seconds. "Yes, please send a car." Then he hangs up again.

"We're going to stand here and wait for a car?"

"What would you rather do?"

"Walk."

Mycroft gives him a look like he just said the stupidest thing in the world. "If you would rather half of you be wet for the remainder of the day then, by all means, we can but as you may notice we will stay dryer this way."

Greg sighs. "Well, when you put it that way."

"There is no other way to put it."

"Or maybe you want a reason to stay close to me under your umbrella."

Mycroft frowns but Greg can see it is only because he is trying to keep from smiling too much. Greg grins for him and grips Mycroft's free hand. He moves the hand with his coffee out from between them and kisses Mycroft's frown. Mycroft humphs but Greg kisses him again then a third time until he feels Mycroft smile and kiss him back.

"Ah ha," Greg says.

Mycroft smiles and sighs quietly, squeezing Greg's hand once.

"We do both have work to be doing," Mycroft says as he taps a finger on the back of Greg's hand.

"We're waiting for your car."

"Did I say I was taking you as well?"

Greg's mouth drops open and he scoffs. "Didn't you say something about not wanting to be wet for the rest of the day?"

"Something like that."

"Uh huh."

Mycroft smiles. "You may come in my car."

"I know."

Mycroft's eyes narrow but he does not stop smiling. He lets go of Greg's hand then reaches up and brushes Greg's hair back. He rubs his thumb at the back of Greg's neck for a moment then drops his hand.

"We haven't stood together in the rain before, not in all these months."

"No?"

Greg shakes his head. "No."

"Is this something worth marking?"

"Why not?"

"I…" Mycroft breathes in slowly and raises his eyebrows. "I suppose I cannot think of a reason not to."

"Except that it's unnecessary?" Greg fills in.

Mycroft smiles. "Except that."

Greg only shrugs.

People hurry past on either side of them on the sidewalk, some under umbrellas but more without. A few people run by with newspapers limp against their heads. Despite their umbrella, the rain begins to soak into the base of their trousers, triangles of dampness just where the rain can reach them. Mycroft slides his arm around Greg and pulls him even closer.

When Mycroft's car arrives, he holds his umbrella over Greg so Greg can get in the car first without getting wet at all.

––––––––––

Mycroft and Greg walk around the National Gallery late in the afternoon. It is about an hour before the museum closes so the school groups are gone. The place is still as silent as Greg remembers most museums, only the occasional whisper of half–correct art analysis. He hasn't been inside a museum, other than for a few crime scenes and Sherlock's countdown painting episode, in years.

"While I admit you're quite posh," Greg whispers to Mycroft, "this still seems a bit, I don't know, ordinary for you?"

"You find works of art to be ordinary?"

"No, not... I just mean, I usually think of you in different places than this. This is..."

"Touristy?"

"Safe."

"You don't find our dinners out and evenings at your flat to be safe?"

"Different kind of safe."

Mycroft smiles. "Well, perhaps it is good to go somewhere a bit calmer now and then."

"Like your Diogenes?"

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak then stop abruptly when his mobile buzzes. Mycroft pulls it out of his pocket and whirls away from Greg, phone at his ear.

"Is the tracking in place?" Mycroft says quietly into the phone. "It is unnecessary to hide it, he knows I know..."

Greg stops listening and looks at the wall in front of him, various 17th century Italian paintings in front of him. A girl sits on one of the available benches attempting to sketch a likeness of one painting. Greg wonders absently if Mycroft ever did such a thing. He glances over his shoulder for Mycroft again and sees him out in the hall now near the wall. Greg crosses his arms but stays where he is. He would move into another gallery because these paintings really aren't his thing but he is not about to lose Mycroft in the maze of different galleries. Greg circles around the whole of the gallery looking at various biblical or mythological paintings, a few real life subjects thrown in. Greg stares at "Boy Bitten by a Lizard" for about ten seconds and wonders why anyone would choose that situation to paint?

"And with a face like that..." Greg mutters.

"Apologies." Mycroft suddenly appears at Greg's side. "Now, shall we look for some Rembrandt? Or perhaps Bellini?"

"What, you don't like da Vinci?"

"Anyone can like da Vinci."

They walk straight through the next gallery and into one dedicated to Rubens. Mycroft pauses for a moment in front of "Samson and Delilah."

"The type of thing you paint?" Greg whispers with a nudge to Mycroft's arm.

Mycroft scoffs then loops his arm through Greg's, pulling him forward through the gallery and right into another. Mycroft takes them into the next gallery, 'Dutch interiors,' when his mobile buzzes again. He lets go of Greg and pulls out his phone.

Mycroft turns away. "Yes? No, that is not good enough..."

Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his hair. He clicks his teeth together and walks along until he hits the one Vermeer in the gallery of a woman wearing a large dress in that same room Vermeer always paints. Greg thinks it's funny when paintings are in paintings, even just as background. He chews his lip and tries to remember if he ever saw that film, the one with Scarlett Johansson that was about Vermeer? At least he thinks it was; it is a vague memory now.

Greg looks over his shoulder again for Mycroft and sees him nowhere. He turns all the way around and only sees three other strangers in the gallery.

"Damn it."

Greg walks over to one doorway into the gallery they just came through. He peers in but does not see Mycroft there. He crosses the gallery the other way and walks into the next room, this one larger than the last. Finally he sees Mycroft standing near the far wall from him. Greg frowns and strides across the room until he is next to Mycroft.

"Mycroft, you could have told me you –"

Mycroft holds up a finger to Greg and leans away toward the mobile at his ear. "Yes. Yes, as I said." He sighs heavily. "We speaking of the safety of the city, not a university student flat!"

Greg clenches his jaw and sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. Finally Mycroft hangs up and turns back to Greg.

He frowns. "I needed to move to a less populated area."

"Perhaps not a museum then."

Mycroft sighs. "Don't be tiresome, Greg."

Greg shrugs, "we can go if you need to."

"You wanted to spend some time –"

"And we can go if you need to."

Mycroft sighs. "You do not understand how difficult you are, Greg."

Greg purses his lips. "I think I do."

Mycroft's mobile vibrates again. They both look at it then back up at each other. Mycroft bites the edge of his lip. Greg nods toward the phone. Mycroft taps the screen and holds it up to his ear, eyes still on Greg.

"Yes?"

Greg reaches out and takes Mycroft's hand. He pulls Mycroft forward and walks them in the direction of the museum exit. Mycroft glances at Greg out of the corner of his eye as he listens to his mobile. His hand squeezes Greg's. Greg smiles and squeezes back.

––––––––––

Greg has been in the office less than hour before Anderson walks through his door, shutting it behind him. He drops a print out of what appears to be a foreign newspaper on Greg's desk, looks like maybe Poland? Greg stares at the article, image of some man standing in front of a car, then he looks up at Anderson again.

"Look." Anderson leans over and taps his finger over headline. "Look at that!"

"I don't read Polish, Anderson."

Anderson scoffs. "It's Czech!"

Greg sighs. "And?"

"The case, a closed murder case reopened and proven to be a set up with the victim in fact still alive! Look at that, it's his work all over."

"His?"

"Sherlock!" Greg stares at Anderson. Anderson reaches out and picks up the article again. He flips it around again in his hand so the front faces Greg. "Who else would do something like that? And no mention of who or why the case was pulled back to the light? Sherlock!"

"Anderson, sit down."

"There is another one." Anderson points at Greg's computer. "I can send you the link. In India two weeks ago."

"Anderson…"

"Two men were –"

"Anderson, sit down!"

Anderson pulls back and blinks for a moment, then he sits down in the chair across from Greg's desk.

"You've got to stop this." Anderson shakes his head but Greg taps a hand firmly on his desk and points at Anderson with the other. "No, I'm serious. You are behind on paper work, completely neglecting crime scene work so that others have to pick up the slack. I can only protect you so far. You need to snap out of this!"

"I don't need to 'snap out of it,' this is true!"

"Anderson, Sherlock is dead! No matter how much you might wish it, there is no changing that!"

Anderson holds up the print out and shakes it. "Then how to do you explain this?"

"Philip," Greg says softly, "I am saying this out of concern for you, all right? It's effecting your work and it's just not healthy."

"Healthy?" Anderson barks a laugh. "The man faked his death! Oh! And I have a theory on how he did that too, let me show–"

"No, Anderson, no." Greg waves his hand. "Listen to me –"

"I will prove this to you." Anderson jumps up from his chair.

"Anderson," Greg says sternly, "consider this a verbal warning. You need to stop."

Anderson snorts. "Fine. Fine. But I will show you, I will prove it!" He nods twice. "You'll see!"

"Anderson, wait."

But Anderson turns around, yanks open the door and rushes out of Greg's office even as Greg is still speaking. The door hits the wall from Anderson flinging it back but, as far as Greg can see, does not crack the plaster. Greg props both elbows on his desk and rubs his forehead hard. He closes his eyes and imagines a nice, tall glass of beer.

"Sir?" Greg opens his eyes to see Donovan in his doorway. She gestures over her shoulder. "Anderson?"

Greg sighs and shakes his head. "Brought me a newspaper article in Czech."

Donovan walks into the office and crosses her arms. "He's worrying me."

"You're not the only one."

"He's started a group."

Greg frowns. "A group?"

"Yeah, for believers."

Greg blinks hard. "For… for what?"

"He's calling it the 'Empty Hearse Society,' or something like that, for people who believe Sherlock is still alive."

"You're joking."

She tilts her head. "Do I joke?"

"Not much." Greg leans back in his chair and blows a breath out. Then he narrows his eyes. "Is anyone else in this club?"

Donovan shrugs. "Don't know. Not sure which would be worse."

"Yeah, right."

"We've got to do something."

"What, Donovan?" Greg flings his arms out to the sides. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know, but we can't just leave him like this!"

Greg's mobile suddenly buzzes on his desk drawing both their eyes. Greg sees Mycroft's name on the screen but he does not pick it up. He looks at Donovan again then sits up.

"We're not just leaving him anywhere, Sally, maybe he'll come around."

"It doesn't look like he is."

"Well, what do you suggest then?"

She sighs and shakes her head. "Something, anything, something to take his mind off it. Off his…" She sighs again. "Guilt."

He tilts his head. "Is he talking to anyone?"

She frowns. "I don't think he'd see a psychologist."

"Well, help him then, Donovan, right?" Greg picks up his coffee. "Got enough on my plate."

Her eyes flick over his desk quickly then she looks at him again. He just raises his eyebrows and picks up a pen off a pile of cases. She swallows once and nods. Then she turns and leaves his office without another word.

Greg takes a sip of coffee then picks up his mobile to see what Mycroft sent:

[09:46] _Must cancel our dinner plans tonight. Regrets._

Greg clicks the cap of his pen open and closed three times as he looks at the text. He types, 'why,' then deletes in. He types 'come by later then,' but deletes that as well. His thumb hovers over the letters until the screen goes dark and he has to click it to life again. Finally he sends:

[09:49] _All right._

––––––––––

Greg sits beside Mycroft on his couch with a football match playing on the TV. The score is one to one right now but they're only about half way in. Greg has his feet propped up on his coffee table – which he really should just call a 'foot table' or something because that's how he uses it – with a beer in hand. Mycroft sits somewhat stiffly with legs crossed, mobile on the arm of the couch. Greg knows football isn't exactly Mycroft's cup of tea but relationships are compromise after all.

The left midfielder makes a break for the goal with the ball but gets slammed full onto the ground by one of the defense kicking for the ball. Greg laughs loudly then groans almost instantly when a yellow flag is thrown.

Mycroft sighs. "Must you?"

Greg looks at him. "It's football, Mycroft, you're supposed to interact."

"Because they can all hear you."

Greg takes a drink of his beer. "Exactly."

Mycroft only rolls his eyes.

Greg points at Mycroft with his bottle. "I am going to make you like this."

"I won't."

"You try to make me prefer wine; I try to make you like football."

"It is a futile exercise as there is no redeeming value or purpose to watching this sport."

Greg scoffs. "And there is a redeeming value and purpose to wine?"

"We are not comparing the two."

"I am."

"What purpose do you find in watching this?"

"Personal enjoyment."

Mycroft frowns. "A thin reason."

"My enjoyment is a thin reason?"

"You are deliberately misinterpreting me."

Greg sits up straight. "All right." He switches his beer to his other hand so he can brush his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "Don't need to get offended."

Mycroft leans away from Greg's hand and shoots him a look. "It is not offense but an observation."

Greg frowns and drops his hand. "Fine. Observation then."

Greg turns back to the television, slouching against the couch and tapping his feet together twice. The play has resumed now and it does not appear that anyone was thrown out of the game so far. The next goal attempt fails but anyone could see it was going to go wide. Greg takes a drink of his beer, glancing at Mycroft. Mycroft has his mobile in his hand, typing quickly with his other hand. Greg frowns but says nothing. He turns back to the game. At center field again, the referee holds the ball in the air but some idiot down the field make a false start.

"Come on," Greg grumbles.

Suddenly, Mycroft stands up from the couch, typing on his mobile with both hands. Greg's eyes tick back and forth between the TV and Mycroft until Mycroft puts his mobile back in his trouser pocket.

"What's up?" Greg asks.

"I must leave."

"Wha…" Greg sits up straight again. "Is something wrong?"

"This is a waste of my time," Mycroft snaps.

Greg huffs. "Look, I know you don't like –"

"I have things I need to be doing, far more important than…" He frowns.

Greg breathes in once through his nose. "Right, okay, if it's work I understand, you –"

"How you think such a pastime as this is worthy of your attention…"

"Okay, you don't need to attack the sport of football now."

Mycroft groans. "It is mundane."

"You find a lot of things mundane, Mycroft."

"Because many things are."

Greg's shoulders sag. "All right, but…" He taps the couch cushion. "How hard is it to bear –"

"Considerably."

"Mycroft, can you just –"

"It is work, yes, work I should be doing."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

Greg cocks his head. "Is there something going on I should know about? Or is this 'eyes only?'"

"It is not…" Mycroft starts then turns his head away instead.

Greg puts his beer down on the coffee table and stands up. He walks over and touches Mycroft's arm. Mycroft breathes in slowly then looks at Greg again.

"All right." Greg rubs his thumb on Mycroft's arm then drops his hand. "All right."

Mycroft reaches out and runs his hand through Greg's hair. He pulls Greg close by the back of his head and kisses him hard. "Good bye," he whispers then turns away and walks to the door.

Greg hears the flat door close a moment later. He does not know if he should chase Mycroft or not, if this is a reaction, if this is another reaction, if this is nothing at all. He stays standing for several minutes until he backs up a step, picks up the TV remote from the table and turns the TV off.

––––––––––

Greg holds a red tie in one hand and a black tie in the other. A black tie is easy and usually looks good but he also has no other color in his outfit what with a black suit. Does it really matter anyway? Whatever tie Mycroft wears will undoubtedly be nicer. Then again, his outfit should not be based off Mycroft. They are not that couple.

"Or maybe no tie?" Greg frowns and wishes, for not the first time, he had a mirror in his bedroom. He could go into the bathroom, yeah, but back and forth like that gets irritating. "To hell with it." He sticks the black tie back on the tie hanger in his closet and goes with the red.

He drapes the tie around his neck but does not tie it yet. He crosses to the dresser and picks up the watch Mycroft gave him. He only wears it some of the time due to monetary worth and his unpredictable proximity to blood or worse. He hooks it around his wrist then straightens it and checks the time. He still has about thirty minutes. He should probably call a cab in a few minutes unless he feels like gambling with just hailing one out on the street.

Greg rubs a hand over his face. "Had to go out…"

He walks down the hall to the bathroom to tie his tie. Then his mobile vibrates.

"Better not be work," Greg says as he pulls it out of his suit jacket pocket.

_Mycroft [7:02]: I do apologize but I must cancel our dinner reservation for tonight._

Greg frowns and yanks his tie off. He texts back.

_[7:02]: Why?_

_Mycroft [7:02]: Unfortunately, something came up which requires my attention._

"Are you kidding..."

_[7:03]: Something?_

_Mycroft [7:03]: Yes._

_[7:03]: Something what?_

_Mycroft [7:03]: Just something_

Greg sighs and drops his hand. "Something? Can't give me anything more?"

He already sounds like he is being accusatory and anything else he can think of to text only sounds worse in his head. Saying 'but we had plans' to a man who might be in charge of the entire national security of England seems particularly trite. But Greg can't help feeling like it must be something else, be Mycroft reacting, be Greg's fault.

He looks at his mobile again. He clicks Mycroft's number to call but changes back to text instead.

_[7:05]: Fine._

Greg sighs and shakes his head. "Stupid." He feels like he's a fifteen year old girl with her first crush, 'pay attention to me' or the like. Perhaps this is relationship growing pains. He wants to give Mycroft his space for his work, for Sherlock, for whatever goes on in Mycroft's head but he cannot keep that up forever. Hands off is not always the answer and maybe it's not just all about Mycroft. But what can he do?

Greg walks out of the bathroom and throws the tie toward his bedroom. Then he turns and heads toward the kitchen to make some dinner for one.

The next day Greg gets a silver card, delivered by another smart suited courier:

_I am sorry. Please smile._

–_Mycroft_

Greg wonders if Mycroft means his request in jest or because he stalked Greg's facial expression on CCTV. However, the signature, first name only, at the end catches Greg's attention more than anything. He smiles.

––––––––––

David sits across from Greg at the pub, small table to themselves and two empty glasses between them. Greg keeps staring at the wall to the left of David's head trying not to check his mobile every minute or, alternatively, throw it across the room.

"All right," David says making Greg look at him. "We've talked about mum and dad finally back in the country. We talked about Rory, Edward and Timothy."

"We didn't talk about Edward."

"Which son is he?"

Greg frowns. "No middle child jokes."

David grins. "Too late."

Greg takes a gulp of his beer. "Ha."

"And, we did a passing hit on your work and exciting murder. So can we finally move into the meat of this?"

"The meat?"

"Do you want me to pick one? Pork, how about?" Greg sighs. David taps his glass on the table. "So what's up with you and Mycroft, then?"

"Nothing is up."

"Yes, there is. You're doing your 'I'm fucking up my relationship' dance."

Greg frowns again. "Dance?"

"You finish your first beer in under a minute. You ignore your mobile to the point where it's odd. You keep staring at the wall at every break in the conversation." David points to the wall to his right, Greg's left. "And you talk about mum and dad."

"We talk about mum and dad all the time."

David snorts. "Right."

"Okay, maybe only sometimes but they did just come back from their trip."

"Second one this year."

"See."

David finishes his glass of beer then leans over the table. "Man up, Greg."

"I think you're just trying to live vicariously through me."

"Do you argue this insistently with your friends?"

Greg rolls his glass around between his hands. David copies Greg with his empty glass until Greg smiles. David wiggles his eyebrows then makes a motion toward their waiter for two more beers.

He looks back at Greg. "So?"

"I'm not sure what's wrong."

"Not sure how?"

"Well… I don't know if this is about his brother or about me or if it's just work. He's just…" Greg sighs because it sounds so stupid. "Distant."

"Distant how?"

"He up and left when we were watching football the other day."

"I thought he didn't like football?"

"Yeah, but how hard is it to just sit and watch it for a night?"

"Ask Jane."

Greg sighs. "All right, bad example, but he's just… canceling plans on me last minute, seeming… well…" David raises his eyebrows. Greg takes another drink of his beer. "Look, I don't know, all right, something is off. I know it sounds like shite but I can just feel it."

Their waiter walks up with two of the same beers in hand. He sets them both down then picks up their empty glasses. Greg downs the last of his beer quickly and hands the empty glass to the man before he walks away. Greg and David reach out at the same time and take their glasses.

"It's not shite," David says.

Greg smiles briefly. "Thanks."

"Could just be about his brother, right? You said he hadn't talked to you at all about it."

"True."

"What else then?"

"I think maybe I'm pushing him."

"Into what?"

"Into us."

"You're already an 'us.'"

"I meant more."

David drinks some of his beer and cocks his head. "You're not making sense."

"I think maybe I'm pushing him too much into… I don't know, domesticity?"

"Are you really so domestic? Is this about the cooking?"

"I'm serious."

"You two have been seeing each other for months, more than six months now, yeah? What's pushing?"

"This is Mycroft."

"Yeah, and you're you, what does he expect?"

"I don't know, patience, maybe? Maybe I'm just…" Greg sighs and holds his glass against his forehead. "I think I'm thinking too much."

"Now that's the sanest thing you've said all night."

"Thank you."

"Greg, relationships ebb and flow. Sometimes when you hit milestones or big events people freak out, pull back or push harder. Maybe that's all it is. You hit six months, his brother died, you finally saw his house." Greg laughs. David grins and taps the table. "You're just settling into being a real couple now and not just a marriage rebound."

Greg frowns. "He's not a marriage rebound."

"Because he broke up the marriage?"

Greg snorts. "Oh yeah, right. Damn home wrecker Holmes."

"See, it works too well to be false."

Greg chuckles again and sips some of his beer. David holds up his glass and they clink together.

"It's going to work itself out."

Greg raises both eyebrows. "Why, because you like him more than Anne?"

"Did I say that?"

"Didn't you?"

"He's refreshingly different than Anne."

"Oh well, now that's a ringing endorsement."

David shrugs. "When we're talking about possible problems in the relationship I should reserve all judgment."

"You just said it'll work out."

"Just in case."

Greg sighs. "You're a help."

"Hey, I have been wrong on the rare occasion."

Greg chuckles and shrugs. "Well, let's hope not this time."

"Hey, really though." David points with the hand holding his glass. "He spent all that time trying to get you, why would he quit now?"

––––––––––

Greg and Mycroft walk down the street together, one bag of shopping in Greg's hand including an anniversary gift for Claire. Mycroft's hand keeps brushing the back of Greg's free hand, his fingers tapping Greg's, occasionally griping tight then letting go again. They pass a shop for stationary supplies, a newish looking restaurant, and a pub that has every space full. All around a normal, quiet evening in London.

Mycroft grips Greg's hand again as they walk, fingers threaded together. Greg turns and looks at him. Mycroft looks straight ahead at the sidewalk in front of them.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft glances at Greg. "I could have found a car for us."

Greg smiles. "It's not exactly cold out or far to walk."

"But you would not have to carry your bag."

Greg chuckles this time. "Mycroft, it's not heavy."

"It would have been quicker."

"We're not in a hurry, you know."

"I…" Mycroft sighs and his hands clenches once around Greg's, probably unconsciously. "I only wish to do what I can."

"For me?"

"For you while I can."

"'While I can?'" Greg squeezes Mycroft's hand. "Who says I'm going anywhere?"

"Everyone changes, Greg, everything changes."

"It can be good though.

Mycroft tilts his head, still looking at the street. "People move beyond our reach and though we wish we could do more, protect them, they are too far. They move on their own no matter how you may wish they were not on that path. You want to keep them close but it is impossible despite all you do."

Mycroft is not talking about Greg.

"You always did what you could, Mycroft."

Mycroft glances at Greg and his jaw clenches. "'Could' does not feel like enough."

"People make their own choices."

"Ha," Mycroft says quietly, "And they often do that so well. Choices lead to the state we are in and often it is undesirable, thrown half way across the world or worse due to those choices." Greg bites his lip but does not try to argue whatever metaphor Mycroft seems to be grasping for. Mycroft shoots a look at Greg then turns back to the street in front of them. "I fear it is never ending."

"It will get better," Greg says.

Mycroft looks at him. "Better?"

"You and Sherlock may have had your problems but I think he knew what you really felt about him under it all."

Mycroft opens his mouth then shuts it again right away. He frowns and drops Greg's hand. "Of course."

"Mycroft, you can –"

"What?" Mycroft snaps suddenly. "I can what?"

Greg sighs and stops walking, so Mycroft halts a few steps in front of him. "You don't have to worry, all right?"

Mycroft scoffs harshly. "Oh, would that were true, Greg."

"Mycroft, I only –"

"It does not matter. I want..." Mycroft breathes in deeply and touches Greg's shoulder. "May we just," he waves a hand out in front of them, "go home?"

Greg smiles slowly and sighs. He rubs a hand through his hair and nods. "Yeah, we can… go home."

––––––––––

Greg stands beside a body with Sergeant Bell on his left. Around them, old factory buildings tower, more covered in graffiti than not. The area is mostly in disuse making it not an uncommon dumping ground. The man lying before them certainly does not seem to have been killed here but it also might not have been far off.

"No witnesses," Bell is saying, "the kids that found him were here to skateboard."

"Or so they said," Gupta says as she appears at Bell's side holding some papers. "Sworn statements. Not very interesting."

"Thanks, Parni," Bell says, with a purr on Gupta's name.

Gupta frowns, giving Bell a double take. Bell winks at her. Gupta sighs and straightens her hat. "You're hilarious. Watch I don't tell Ted."

"Go ahead."

Gupta frowns again as she turns around and heads back toward the crime scene tape line.

Greg nudges Bell. "What's that?"

Bell laughs. "Oh, Gupta has a new girlfriend. Should see the face she makes when she's on her mobile."

"I meant about Clipton."

Bell clears her throat carefully and keeps Greg's eye contact. "Nothing at all."

"Hmm." Greg turns back to the body. "Watch that."

"Yes, sir."

Greg crouches down next to the body, superficial wounds as well as three deep stab wounds which are likely the cause of death. Greg sees some blood under the finger nails, could be the killer's. He looks up again at Bell then peers around the crime scene.

"Where is Anderson?" He asks as he stands up again. "He's on forensics for this."

"I don't –" Then Anderson skids into Bell's side with his kit in one hand and a roll of papers in the other. "Christ!"

Bell glares at Anderson as he breathes heavily. He gives her a glare back then looks expectantly at Greg. Greg stares then turns to Bell and nods her away. She opens her mouth but closes it again without saying anything. She walks away behind Anderson and shoots Greg a 'you sure you want to do that' face.

"This." Anderson holds out his roll of papers to Greg. "Look at this."

"Is this a Czech newspaper article?"

Anderson laughs. "God no, certainly not!" Anderson puts down his kit at his feet. "There is a German one, a Japanese one, and, and!" He slides next to Greg and begins to unfold the stack of rolled papers. "The map, this map. Look, I have red dots on what I know must be confirmed, well confirmed as I can, locations. The green are just suspect. I could –"

"Anderson, what did I tell you –"

"All right, all right, none of this is really confirmed, I haven't been out there. But if you know what to look for you can see –"

"Anderson!" Greg snaps. "You have a body you need to work on." Greg points at the ground. "Right here!"

Anderson looks over his shoulder then turns back around with a laugh. "Well, he's not going anywhere."

"Anderson!"

"If you could look –"

"Go home."

Anderson stops and looks up from the map. "What?"

"Go home, Anderson, I'm suspending you for the rest of the week."

Anderson's jaw drops. "What!"

"No accessing the database, no searching through Sherlock's old cases – I know you have been. No cross access to EU police records. You need to get your mind out of this!"

"You can't be serious."

"I am. You are suspended as of right now." Anderson grips the papers but Greg pulls them back. "No, I'm keeping these. You don't need this."

"That is –"

"Go home now and I will see you back on Monday."

Anderson's lip trembles once, he frowns deeply then turns around and stalks away, nearly running over PC's Peters and Avery as he goes. Greg crosses his arms and watches until he sees Anderson get into his car. At the caution tape line Bell, Gupta, Avery and Peters all stare at him. He just shakes his head then waves them over. Gupta remains at the caution tape as the other three jog over.

"Right, Bell, call the station to get us someone for forensics."

"But Anderson was..." Peters starts.

Greg only shakes his head. "No, he's not. Peters and Avery, you two are going to help me with the preliminary account of the scene until forensics gets here. Avery there should be a camera in someone's car. Peters, I know there are some evidence bags in the truck of my car, could you?"

The three of them nod and all turn at once away from him. Greg stays standing beside the body, apparently his only company now. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. First he clicks into his texts. No new messages. Then he clicks Donovan's number and dials.

She answers on the second ring. "Greg?"

"Hi Sally, I know it's your personal line, sorry, but..." He sighs. "Would you mind checking on Anderson sometime this week? I had to suspend him."

"You suspended him?"

"Just until Monday but, well, he's getting worse."

He hears her breathe in and huff it out again. "Yeah, yeah I will."

"Thanks." Greg hangs up and stares at the face of his mobile. He clicks into his texts again, a short list – David, his mate Paul, Claire, and Mycroft at the top. No new messages. Greg clicks off the screen and puts the mobile back in his pocket.

––––––––––

Greg moves around Mycroft's kitchen gathering ingredients and spices and two spatulas. Several dishes are in progress at once. The potatoes dauphinoise are slowly cooking and at the moment Greg chops courgettes. The chicken should go into the oven soon as well. Mycroft sits at the table behind Greg with a glass of white wine.

"Could you find me a pot for these?" Greg asks over his shoulder as he puts one courgette on his cutting board.

"I believe you already have one."

Greg chops the end off the courgette and pushes it to the side, shooting Mycroft a frown. "I think it'll end up being too small."

"It won't."

"Mycroft, I just need a pot. Not that hard."

Mycroft stands up and puts his wine down on the table. He walks across to the counter a little way down from Greg then crouches low and opens the bottom cabinet. He stands again with a pot in hand, slightly larger than Greg's rejected pot. Mycroft puts it down on the counter beside Greg's right hand.

"Thank you."

"The other would have sufficed but as you wish."

"All right." Greg drops the knife he is chopping with and turns around to face Mycroft. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What is going on with you?"

Mycroft presses his lips together, fingers tapping once over the counter. "There is nothing 'going on,' as you say."

"Obviously there is, Mycroft. You're lecturing me about pot size."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "It is obvious."

"The pot or you?"

Mycroft sighs. "Both."

"Well, the 'you' is not obvious to me." Greg crosses his arms. "So what is it?"

Mycroft sighs again. "Are you not trying to make dinner? Why must this be a conversation? Must everything be a conversation? I have told you relationships are not as simple for me as they are for you."

"I never said relationships were simple, Mycroft. They never are."

"Then why do you insist?"

"Because I want us to be okay! I want you to be okay but you're pulling away from me."

"I am right here."

Greg groans. "You know what I mean." He rubs a hand through his hair. "Is this about Sherlock, is that what it is?"

Mycroft huffs. "My God, no. It is not about Sherlock. Everything is not always about my brother."

"But you're –"

"I have obligations, Greg, responsibilities which may supersede you."

"Supersede me?"

"It is not easy to slow myself down to your pace."

"I... what do you mean?" Greg shakes his head and crosses his arms. "That does not make sense."

"Exactly!"

Greg groans and rubs a hand over his face. He looks away at the cabinets then turns back to Mycroft. "Mycroft, I don't understand why you are doing this. We're happy!"

"I did not say we were not happy."

"Well then, what, because it's like you're just fighting me."

Mycroft clenches his fist and shakes his head. "I am not fighting you."

Greg laughs once. "Yes, you are. You're obviously pulling away."

"Oh, you can tell that, can you?"

"Mycroft... what do you want me to do?"

Mycroft sighs and turns away slightly. "Perhaps it has nothing to do with you."

"Perhaps?"

Mycroft paces across the kitchen, touches his wine glass on the table but does not pick it up. He watches his feet as he walks then glances at Greg again. Greg raises his eyebrows, waiting.

"I have said before relationships are not my forte; In general I avoid them, as you know."

"Yes."

"And this is as 'long term' as I have ever been. It is unsettling in many ways." He breathes in slowly and his eyes shift away from Greg. "And it is... difficult to be this." He waves a hand toward the counter where pieces of dinner are spread out. "I have a role, duties to keep to."

"This isn't about your work."

"And you know this?"

"It's a weak excuse."

"Then perhaps it is how I must temper myself to your mundane level of skill and observation for the simple world around you!"

Greg grits his teeth and breathes in deeply twice. He frowns and digs his fingers into his arms. "We both know how smart you are, Mycroft, but you're not like Sherlock was. You're just not." He uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on his hips. "And don't you say I'm some sort of burden to you, because I'm not."

"I..." Mycroft touches his finger tips to the table as if he needs just that bit of support. "No..." He breathes in shakily. "You are not a burden."

"Look..." Greg gestures between them with one hand. "I want us to work, all right? I want to be here with you. You need to meet me half way."

Mycroft steps closer and suddenly takes Greg's hand. He threads their fingers together and touches the back of Greg's hand with his other hand. "I want you here, Greg." He looks up from their hands. "I do."

"Good." Greg squeezes Mycroft's hand. "What then?"

Mycroft sighs. "I will do as I can, Greg."

Greg smiles and touches Mycroft's neck. "Okay, all I ask." He kisses Mycroft then glances at the counter. "I should probably try to save dinner now."

Mycroft chuckles. "I believe you should be able."

"I do have skill in the kitchen."

"And elsewhere."

Greg laughs. "Glad you noticed."

––––––––––

Greg and Mycroft lie beside each other in bed, Mycroft's glorious king size bed. Mycroft has sweat along his hair line, his expression half asleep. Greg touches Mycroft's hair, rubs some of the sweat away.

Mycroft chuckles. "Such a messy business."

Greg laughs back. "You didn't seem to mind ten minutes ago."

"Did you?"

"I don't mind now."

Mycroft smiles and rolls onto his side. He reaches over and runs his hand through Greg's hair, back and forward, pushing his hair in the wrong direction then flattening it down again. Greg smiles, closes his eyes, focuses on the feeling of Mycroft's hand.

"Keep going if you want me to fall asleep," Greg murmurs.

"That easy, are you?"

Greg smiles. "It's soothing."

"I can tell."

Greg opens his eyes again. "Well, you're the one obsessed with my hair."

"Am I obsessed?"

"Yeah."

"I think obsessed is a strong word. 'Fond' would be more appropriate."

Greg runs a lazy hand down Mycroft's neck and onto his chest. "Whatever word you want." He traces a line over Mycroft's chest, down his stomach and around his side. "Doesn't matter to me."

Mycroft's hand slides down Greg's hairline, and around the back of his head. He pulls Greg closer and kisses him, slow but insistent like he needs to breathe Greg in. His other hand slides along Greg's hip but they're definitely both old enough now that another round is not in the making so soon. Still Greg presses closer to Mycroft, just that feeling of skin against skin. Then Mycroft rolls Greg onto his back and slides on top of Greg. Greg laughs as Mycroft kisses him again, his one leg slipping between Greg's.

"Oh, if only," Greg says and runs a hand along Mycroft's back. "Younger, eager lover."

Mycroft groans. "Oh horrid, do people says such things?"

"What, young and eager or lover?"

"The entirety."

Greg just grins and wiggles his toes on Mycroft's ankle. Mycroft sighs and kisses Greg at his pulse point. "I am also not so young, Greg." He pulls back and raises an eyebrow. "The joys of middle age."

Greg squeezes a hand on Mycroft's hip. "I'm all right with these joys." He kisses Mycroft twice. "Soon you'll be forty-five and really feel it."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You and your siblings' focus on age is baffling. As if it some accurate barometer for experience."

"Hey, fifty is a frightening sight coming toward you."

"Age is not a predator."

"But time is."

"Oh god..."

Greg laughs quietly and runs his hands lazily up and down Mycroft's sides. Mycroft smiles and holds himself up just enough on his elbows over Greg. His hands rest on either side of Greg's neck, finger tips making slow circles. He sighs in a contented way and shifts to the side off of Greg, one leg and arm still draped across Greg. Greg turns his head and watches Mycroft, both of them fading closer to sleep.

"If only we could just stay here," Mycroft whispers.

"Here in your bed?"

Mycroft smiles. "Yes, just right here, now."

Greg kisses Mycroft again. "We can."

Mycroft smile fades a little. "I wish we could."

––––––––––

Greg walks through the door of Mycroft's house, the front door unlocked in expectation of him. He glances in the living room, sees the table by the window empty. He looks down the hall but he can tell no one is in the kitchen. He climbs the stairs and walks down the hall until he turns into the upstairs sitting room, leather chairs in front of the fire place with Mycroft standing in front of his row of glass bottles.

"Hey." Mycroft turns at Greg's voice, glass in hand. "You called? What's up?"

"Yes." Mycroft puts the glass in his hand down on the small table. "Would you sit?"

Greg takes two steps forward then stops. "You want me to sit?"

"It would be best."

Greg frowns and sees the body language Mycroft would not think about. "Why?"

"You needn't be suspicious. I merely asked you to sit."

"That's a lie." Greg crosses his arms. "What's wrong?"

Mycroft clears his throat. "I wished to speak about us."

"Oh?"

Mycroft presses his lips together and touches the knot of his tie, though he does not adjust it in any way. He drops his hand and looks Greg purposely in the eye. "This between us needs to end."

Greg stares for two beats. "What?"

"You and I, our relationship, this, needs to end."

"As in break up?"

"If you must use such a juvenile phrasing, yes."

"You... no, we talked about –"

"Yes, we did, Greg but the basic facts are not changed. I am not a man who maintains friendships, let alone serious relationships."

"Is that the problem, you think we're too serious? We can –"

"No, Greg, it is the relationship at all. I never intended nor expected our relationship to progress this way or last so long."

"Things change, Mycroft. Relationships don't follow plans. That doesn't mean you just bail because it's not on your script."

"I said nothing about a plan."

"You said you intended –"

"Do not deliberately twist my words!" Mycroft snaps. "And it hardly matters. You and I cannot be maintained; my mind will not allow it nor will my position in the government, as you well know. I have more important things to spend my time on."

"More important, you –"

Mycroft cuts him off, "I meant just as I said and surely you can comprehend my meaning."

"Mycroft, I don't –"

"It is done, Greg." Mycroft interrupts again. "That is all I have to say."

"No," Greg says sharply so Mycroft's mouth finally clicks closed. Greg points at him. "I'm not letting you give up on this."

Mycroft frowns. "It is not a joint decision."

"You said before this was a gamble, a gamble that had paid off."

"If one keeps gambling they will eventually lose."

"We're not going to trade metaphors!" Greg snaps.

"Then I will spell it out for you, Greg," Mycroft says with venom. "We are over. The relationship is done. I can no longer afford these types of attachments. Shall I say it another way?"

"Attachments?"

"By which I mean you," Mycroft growls. "A man in my position…"

"Oh! Your position!" Greg gasps loudly. "So is that what this is, you're choosing work over me?"

"I am choosing England over you!" Mycroft shouts.

Greg grits his teeth together and stays very still to keep from kicking the chair, the wall, Mycroft. He breathes through his nose slowly and controls his voice. "So all the time and effort you – you not me – put into pursuing me, to winning me over, to making this happen…" Greg shrugs. "Now it's just queen and country?"

Mycroft smiles in a thin line. "Yes."

"No, it's not! That is not it!" Greg shouts, unable to keep himself in check. "What is wrong with you?"

"I have made my decision," Mycroft snaps back. "You will simply have to live with it!"

"You're just afraid!"

"Get out of my house!" Mycroft shouts.

Greg growls, "Make me!"

"I could."

Greg stares at Mycroft, his indifferent gaze, and the grand room around them. He wants to step closer but instead he balls his hands into fists and tries not to scream. He breathes in a few times, staring at Mycroft as Mycroft stares at the wall to the left of Greg.

"Please," Greg whispers, "don't push me away,"

Mycroft presses his lips together tightly then looks at the windows. "Goodbye, Greg."

"Please!"

"Goodbye, Greg," Mycroft repeats.

And Greg moves, turns around, walks out before he can do or say anything else rash. He rushes into the hall, hits the stairs and feels like he falls as walks down and out the front door. When the door closes behind him and he hits the side walk, Greg realizes he is hyperventilating. He bends in half and holds himself up with his hands on his thighs. Greg focuses on breathing in and out to calm himself down. The sidewalk in front of him is impeccably white, not a crack. Greg's eyes slip to his own hands, matching white from the effort to stay still, gray cuffs of his coat caught between his palms and legs. Gray coat… He's wearing the coat Mycroft gave him.

Greg heaves himself up again. He pulls the coat off his arms and throws it violently onto the ground in front of him. He turns away with his hands over his face. He feels nauseous. He wants a cigarette. He wants ten. He wants to sit down on the kerb and pass out.

Greg drops his hands from his face, Mycroft's house in front of him and the coat lying behind him. Mycroft is everywhere Greg looks. Greg blows a slow breath out as he buttons his suit jacket. Then he turns around again and picks the coat up off the ground. He does not put it back on. Greg stares at the street for a few seconds. He does not look back up at Mycroft's house. He breathes in sharply then turns left to find a taxi.


	3. Grasping

Greg opens the door to his parents' house without knocking, the sounds of children and activity coming from inside. He closes the door behind him as he hangs up his coat. Walking through the empty hall, he steps into the door of the living room. Kate and John sit side by side in front of the Christmas tree searching through the presents underneath.

"You still have till tomorrow, you know," Greg says.

They whirl around at the same time through a blur of red hair, credit to their father, and flash him matching grins.

"We're just looking for our names," Kate says.

"No harm in that," John finishes.

Greg walks over and crouches down, Kate and John eyeing the large paper shopping bag in his right hand. They look up at his face, down to the bag, and back up again.

Greg shrugs. "Oh, probably nothing for you in here."

"Aw!" Kate cries at the same time John moans, "Uncle Greg!"

Greg smiles and slides the bag to them. "Put them out under the tree for me and you can shake them all you want."

"Deal!" Kate and John chorus.

Greg stands up straight again as the two of them tear into the bag. He breathes in slowly and puts his hands into his pockets. He glances around the room. David's son Edward sits in the corner absorbed in his mobile with knees pulled up to his chest. As Greg turns toward the door to the back room, and the kitchen, David's youngest Timothy suddenly slams into Greg's side, wrapping him in a hug.

"Hi, hi, hi, hi," he chants as he clings to Greg's waist, still only coming up to the middle of Greg's chest, not quite hit his puberty growth spurt yet.

Greg touches the top of Timothy's head. "Hello Timothy, happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas!" He looks up at Greg with a grin. "Did you bring me presents?"

Greg smiles and points toward Kate and John. "Best check."

Kate turns where she sits and holds up a small box. "Found your name!"

Timothy gasps, detaches himself from Greg and plops down on the floor beside his cousins. Greg watches them for a moment as they shift presents around, check tags, and Kate nearly crawls completely under the tree. He looks the tree up and down, a red and gold theme to the decorations. He reaches out and touches one gold ornament, shiny and reflective. He pulls his hand back and swallows once. Then he blows out a breath of air and turns toward the kitchen.

Greg knocks on the door frame as he walks in. "Hello, family."

"Greg!" Claire, David, and Jane all cry together.

Jane waves a hand, wet from the dishes she is washing in the sink while Claire across from her waves the knife in her hand where she cuts vegetables onto a hors d'oeuvres palter. Greg does not see Colin in the kitchen at the moment. David steps forward and pushes a beer into Greg's hand.

"Join the fun." He shrugs. "Or at least fun for the adult crowd. My oldest son is outside with Colin because apparently he is the cool uncle."

"What does that make me?"

"The fuzz."

Greg cracks a small smile. "Well, Rory is eighteen now."

"Unfortunately." David glances behind Greg, peering through into the living room, then back again to Greg. He waits but when Greg does not say anything else he just smiles. "So, you going to save dinner now?"

"By that, you mean start it?"

"It's started!" Claire snaps, prompting a snort and chuckle from Jane. Claire shoots a glare over her shoulder Jane does not see.

Greg nods as he hands David his beer back and slips off his suit jacket. "I am here to save the dinner."

David takes Greg's jacket and gives him back the beer. "Good because I want to eat the best chicken for Christmas, not Claire chicken."

"Oi!"

Jane laughs again, flipping her blond hair and smiles at David. "You're going to be in real trouble at this rate."

"He already is," Claire grumbles and pops a cucumber slice into her mouth.

David slides across the kitchen floor, kisses Claire on the cheek then kisses Jane on the lips. "Ladies, you cannot deny the superiority of Greg Lestrade, the Cop Chef."

At that Claire and Jane both laugh out loud.

Greg takes a sip of his beer and sighs. "Want me to cook or leave you starving?"

David bows low with Greg's suit jacket still over his arm. "I apologize. Please save our lives."

"He is in rare form," Claire mutters and wipes her hand on her apron.

"Top form," Jane echoes.

David grins. "It is Christmas."

"All right." Greg puts his beer down and steps forward. "Let's get going."

Greg spends the next several hours in the kitchen, Claire assisting and taking out new plates of appetizers. Jane, Colin, and David entertain the children most of the time, though they tag out in turns to help Greg in the kitchen, even if helping sometimes just means chugging a new beer. Occasionally bursts of singing will come from the other room until it devolves into whines and arguments. At one point Greg hears David's three sons start a debate about current bands versus The Cure followed by which of them has the more sophisticated taste in music overall. David reads the card sent by their parents, away on some cruise for the month, in the kitchen and the living room to ensure the grandparent love is received by all. Anne makes a short appearance to drop off presents and say hello before she moves on to her own family function. (Greg avoids saying hello). Jane's brother Michael and his wife also arrive followed by Rory's girlfriend twenty minutes later, much to his parents' surprise. Pass the parcel happens at least once from what Greg hears and Jane even forces the kids to play some board game.

Greg stays exclusively in the kitchen chopping and stirring things in pots on the stove and marinating and shoving pans in the oven. He focuses on the food and let's everything else just happen around him, breathing in and out.

Once the dinner is cooking on its own, half an hour before everything will be done, Greg picks up his glass of beer and sneaks away upstairs. He stops for a moment on the second floor, glancing down the long hall at the three bedrooms in a row. However, he keeps going up the narrow stairs to the attic.

The attic in Greg's parents' house is half set up as a guest room and half for storage. His parents are highly organized people with every item, apart from furniture, in plastic bins labeled on the outside. The bins line the left wall of the attic, two high and two wide, with a few chairs at the far end and an old wardrobe.

When Greg walks in, the one, circular window across from Greg makes a spot of light from the setting sun on the wardrobe, nearly on the ceiling by now. Greg stands still near the door for a moment, watching the window. He can only see the sky through it from this height. He breathes slowly through his nose and puts his free hand in his jean pocket. Then Greg steps over to the right. The right of the attic has a queen bed with two small side tables. The one on the left has a lamp while the one on the right has a box of tissues; always ready for guests. Greg sits down on the end of the bed, takes his hand from his pocket to slide it up into his hair and stares at the floor. He takes a sip of his beer and wonders if he could get away with staying up here forever.

The attic door opens and David peeks in, just his head through the doorway. "Hide out time?"

Greg looks up, not overly surprised David came to find him, and drops his hand to his knee. "That's what attics are for."

David grins and steps in, closing the door behind him. He walks over and sits beside Greg on the bed.

"Cheers." David clinks his glass against Greg's.

"Happy Christmas," Greg says as he takes a drink.

David takes a quick gulp of his beer and tilts his head. "You don't look so happy."

Greg clears his throat. "Yeah…"

"Hey!" Claire suddenly pops through the door, snapping it closed quietly behind her. "You two can't hide out without me, I cooked!"

"You helped," Greg corrects.

"I cooked too!" David says with only slight indignation.

"You chopped peppers," Claire says as she sits down on Greg's other side.

"And made the salad."

"Colin made the salad."

David scoffs. "So he says."

"I saw him do it."

Greg sighs loudly and lies back on the bed, drink held on top of his chest. David and Claire lie down beside him two seconds later. Greg hears David put his drink down on the side table as they all stare up at the pointed ceiling and exposed beams. After a minute, David nudges his head against Greg's and Claire begins fiddling with Greg's shirt cuff.

"I notice Mycroft didn't come," Claire remarks.

"Did we invite him?" David asks.

"I assumed Greg would." Claire turns her head slightly toward Greg. "You did, didn't you?"

"But you were hosting, Claire," David insists.

Claire waves a hand in the air above them. "At mum and dad's."

"But you were in charge."

"Greg knew Mycroft was welcome!"

"Actually, we've split up," Greg says quietly.

Claire and David abruptly jolt up on either side of Greg to gaze down at him. David stares in fury while Claire gapes as if she did not hear him correctly. Greg purses just his lips with an accompanying shrug.

"What do you mean 'split up'?" Claire asks finally.

"What it usually means."

"But why!"

"Claire!" David snaps.

She jerks her head up and gapes at instead David. He shakes his head and furrows his eyebrows at her.

"Look, it's okay," Greg says, touching both their arms in turn. "All right? Is what it is."

"So… he dumped you?" Claire asks. David sighs. "Well!" Claire runs a hand through her hair, extra curly today. "Never know! Mycroft could have done something."

"I'd say he did."

Claire sighs. "You know what –"

"He hurt our brother."

"Calm down, David," Greg says knocking his knee against David's.

"Hey." David looks down at Greg again. "It is my job as older brother to be enraged on your behalf." He looks up at Claire. "And plan revenge schemes."

"No."

David's eyes switch back to Greg. "Why not?"

"Because Mycroft is National Security or something even more secretive, and he could probably have you killed without repercussions."

"But would he?"

Greg cocks his head against the pillow. "I think it's likely."

David and Claire frown at each other. Claire clears her throat. "He's kidding right?"

"Not sure."

Greg smiles. "I think I'm not." He looks up at them and raises his glass. "So, no revenge, please. I don't need to go to another funeral this year or next."

David sighs and digs his nails into the fabric of his gray sweater. "So when did this happen?"

"Uh, about two weeks ago."

"Two weeks!" David and Claire snap together.

"You two really need to calm down."

"But…" David scoffs. "Two weeks…" David frowns. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Or me," Claire adds.

David and Claire glance up at each other then back to Greg. He sighs. "Look, it was only two weeks ago and we're not teenagers in rooms next door anymore." He frowns. "What do you want me to say? It's not like it was a divorce! Just a break up. Nothing more. Okay, are we done?" He sighs heavily as he stares hard at the ceiling.

"Oh honey," Claire whispers, "it hasn't hit you yet, has it?"

"Fucking hell, Claire!" Greg shouts, jerking up and sliding toward the end of the bed.

David grabs Greg's elbow just as his feet hit the floor. "Greg."

Greg stops moving. He looks at the light blue bins across from him, 'clothes' written in black sharpie on at least three of them. He sighs and his shoulders sag. He takes a big gulp of his beer until the glass is empty then let's it slip from his fingers to roll across the floor. He feels Claire scoot forward over the bed behind him. Then her arms wrap around his stomach and she rests her head on his shoulder, hair against his neck and her nose at his back. David slides forward and swings his legs out over the end of the bed beside Greg. Greg glances at David and David puts his hand over Greg's.

"You don't have to tell us anymore." He smiles. "It's Christmas."

Greg laughs once dryly. "Because that makes sense."

David nods. "It does."

Greg turns away but still threads his fingers with David's. David squeezes Greg's hand once and Claire rubs a circle over Greg's back. They sit in silence for several minutes. Then Greg breathes out a slow, shaky breath and whispers, "I miss him."

––––––––––

Greg stares at his desk, two case files and information for a press release he needs to finish writing so it can be approved. He's only written three sentences of the press release and hasn't even opened either case file. One case is Donovan's so at least there he can be sure every 'T' is crossed.

Instead, he keeps staring at a note on his desk. It is a note about a Sherlock case: conclusively not committed or perpetrated in any way by Sherlock, only solved by him. It is not the Sherlock part that is bothering him though. Whoever wrote the note, whoever he had put on to review this case – probably Peters – wrote out 'Sherlock Holmes.' Greg can't stop staring at the 'Holmes.'

"Greg!"

Greg jerks in surprise and looks up. Donovan stands in his doorway with a frown on her face.

Greg clears his throat. "Yes?"

"I said your name three times."

Greg glances left then right then back to Donovan. "Sorry. Just…" He clears his throat again and sits up straighter. "What is it?"

"Have you looked at the Roberts case?" She holds up a paper in her hand. "Evidence is in and I think we have enough for an arrest."

"Uh…" Greg picks up the two files on his desk and squints at the labels. He opens the top one and scans the page. "I have… they found hairs?" He looks up again.

She grins. "More than one."

Greg reads a few sentences, jumps ahead to names then nods. "Well, Happy New Year. Get to it."

"Right. You coming?"

Greg closes the case file. His eyes drag over the 'Holmes' on the piece of paper near his right hand then up to Donovan again. "Uh, no… I – you don't need me and I've got a press release to write."

"On this?" She frowns. "Already?"

He shakes his head. "No, on the Dawson murder suicide."

"Ah." She nods. She tilts her head and flicks her eyes up and down him once. "You all right? You look…"

He raises his eyebrows at her. "Tired?"

"Like you got raked over the coals."

Greg chuckles mirthlessly and nods. "Ah yeah."

She watches him but when he does not elaborate she shrugs lightly. "All right. I will keep you informed about this case."

"Call if you get shot at."

Donovan snorts as she turns out of the doorway. "Funny."

Greg sighs. "Not really."

He picks up the forensics report for his press release and clicks a few keys on his laptop. The document he has started is still open on his desktop looking very weak and empty. He rubs a hand over his face and types a bit more, one eye trying to wander over his desk. Greg clicks enter for a new paragraph and turns over a page on his desk. As he turns back to his laptop, his eyes hang on the 'Holmes' for what must be the twelfth time.

He sighs and grits his teeth. "Bloody ridiculous." Greg snatches up the note and tears it into four pieces.

"Sir?"

Greg frowns, the pieces of paper still in his hand, and slowly pulls his eyes up to his doorway yet again. It is Peters. "Peters?" Peters holds up two paper travel cups, one with the string of a teabag hanging against the side. Greg's frown twists. "Tea?"

"And coffee," Peters adds. "I didn't know which one you'd like at the moment."

"You brought me coffee and tea?"

"Yes."

Greg drops the pieces of paper onto his desk. "You know you're not my errand boy, right Peters?"

Peters cracks a smile. "Just looked like you needed it."

"Why is everyone saying things like that today?"

Peters steps in and puts both cups down on Greg's desk clear of any paper work or his laptop. Then Peters stands up straight again. He clears his throat a little awkwardly, glances over his shoulder then turns back to Greg. Greg furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

"It looked to me like… well, like things weren't going too well."

Greg huffs. "We do work with crime, Peters."

"No, I meant…" He clears this throat again. "With you; with you and… with your… well, with you."

Greg stares at Peters and blinks. He knows what Peters means. "Oh?"

"I'm sorry. Not trying to over step." He bites his lip and waves a hand. "If I was wrong or shouldn't have or if I, uh –"

"Thank you, Peters." Greg cuts Peters off then smiles in a thin line. "They are both just fine."

Peters relaxes visibly and nods back at Greg. "Right. Well, uh, good luck, sir." Then he turns and hurries out of Greg's office.

Greg stares at the two cups. They should be labeled 'charity case Detective Inspector Lestrade.'

Greg has no idea how Peters knew and he has no idea what his face looks like right now but, apparently, he is a mess.

––––––––––

Greg paces back and forth across his living room floor. He taps his fingers on the entertainment center then walks across to his coffee table again. He picks up the James Bond book, still not finished, then drops it back on the table. He twists his mobile around in his right hand, pinched in the center and flipping it in circles. He paces back and forth and shakes his head at himself. He stops in the center of the room and stares at the blank screen of his mobile.

"Fine."

He clicks it to life and chooses Mycroft's number. It takes four rings but Mycroft answers.

"Greg?"

"Hi, uh… hi."

"Can I help you?"

Greg frowns. "Help me?"

"Was there something you needed?"

"I… no, I mean yes, but, no, I…" Greg sighs and squeezes his eyes closed. "I just wanted to talk to you, all right?"

"If there is nothing specific you need there is work I should be doing."

"It's after seven."

"And aren't you lucky to be home, Greg. Good bye."

"Oi! Wait." Greg pauses but when he does not hear the line cut off he breathes in again. "Can we talk? Just a minute, please."

Mycroft sighs. "I will time you."

Greg sighs right back. "You know what I meant by a minute."

"Fine, Greg, what is it?"

Greg stares at his couch, remembers Mycroft sitting beside him, leaning against him, lying under him, laughing, smiling. "I think you need to give us another chance."

"Pardon?"

"I know what you said, Mycroft. I know it's not easy for you. It's never easy for the rest of us either but you shouldn't just give up, make excuses. Yeah, it's not always easy street but we were happy."

"It was not a question of happiness, Greg."

Greg huffs. "What was it a question of then? Think being happy is most important."

Mycroft laughs harshly. "Ah yes, you would think that, but those of us who think a bit quicker have different priorities. Or did I not make that clear enough at my home?"

Greg grits his teeth together. "Don't play your 'I'm a genius game.' It won't work."

"'Won't work?' Greg, it is not a matter of games. It is who I am and my priorities are of far greater importance than letting some ill–conceived romance continue to play out toward come cinematic ending."

"Stop."

"Did you expect some ride off into the sunset?"

"Please, stop. You're trying to make it not real. It was real." Greg flings his arm out in the air. "It is real!"

Mycroft sighs. "You are beginning to give me a headache."

"Mycroft, you start –"

"Yes, yes, I know what else you will say," Mycroft interrupts. "I started this, etcetera. Well, I suppose it was a Sherlock–like experiment but it ran its course."

"I said, stop it!" Greg snaps, smacking a hand on his entertainment center. "That's not true. I know it's not."

Mycroft sighs again, full of condescension. "It is surprising you cannot hear how ridiculous you sound."

"_I_ sound ridiculous?"

Mycroft sighs yet again. "D.I. Lestrade, I suggest you find yourself a drink and calm down."

"Don't call me that." Greg fists his hand in his hair. "You're not letting me talk!"

"There is nothing you need to say to me."

"But you haven't hung up yet." Greg huffs and blows out a breath. "Just… can we get dinner, lunch, something? Please, I know you want to blame it on work and your big brain but you spent almost a year with me." Greg breathes deeply, in and out, waiting for Mycroft to fill in the pause but he stays silent. "I know you were happy," Greg continues. "I know you were, even when you told me to leave."

"No."

"No you weren't happy?" Greg looks down at the floor.

"No, I do not wish to have dinner or lunch with you."

Greg's head jerks up again as if Mycroft were standing in front of him. "Mycroft, I don't understand why you are pushing me away!"

"This has gone on long enough. Good bye."

"Wait –" But this time the line cuts off before Greg can say any more. "Shit."

Greg drops the mobile from his ear then violently kicks his coffee table again. It skids back into the couch with a crack, nearly everything on top falling to the floor. "Dr. No" bounces once when it falls and slides toward the window, landing face up. Greg stares at the book and wants to rip out every page.

––––––––––

"What is this?" Mycroft snaps as soon as Greg answers his mobile.

Greg sighs. "What is what?"

"You know exactly what."

"No, I don't, Mycroft. I'm not there."

"This package."

Greg's lip twitches and he frowns. "You could always open it."

Mycroft sighs. "I have."

"Then you know what it is. Why are you asking me?"

Greg hears Mycroft inhale slowly and click his tongue. "I am asking you why."

"Are you?"

"Don't be obtuse!"

"Well, maybe you should be more specific in your questions then."

Mycroft makes a growl sort of noise. "Why are you sending me the gifts I gave you?"

"Have you never been in a break up before?"

"Relationships end, Greg, it does not require some sort of reparations agreement or division of perceived shared property, at least not in this case."

"So, no?"

Mycroft sighs. "You are being petty."

Greg scoffs. "Petty? Now that's a word choice."

"You don't send back gifts."

Greg starts to crumple up a random piece of paper on his desk. "Yes, you do."

"They were gifts!" Mycroft knocks something in the background. "You don't send them back!"

"People do." He hits the new ball of paper off his desk.

"I am not a store you can return items to for the cash equivalent."

"Who said anything about cash?"

"Greg!"

Greg drums his fingers on his desk and shrugs even though Mycroft cannot see him. "I don't want them anymore."

Mycroft scoffs. "Surely a French press will not bring up unwanted nostalgia for you."

"You don't know that," Greg snaps.

Mycroft sighs. "Really, Greg, these things are yours; the coat, the watch. They have not lost their usefulness now that we are no longer together."

Greg huffs and stabs his pen into a folder on his desk. "Think what you like, Mycroft."

Mycroft groans. "This is childish!"

"This just isn't as clean as you'd like and, well, that's just too bad. Goodbye." Greg hangs up before Mycroft can say anything else.

Greg drops his mobile and pen onto his desk almost immediately then rubs his hands over his face. He breathes in sharply then pulls his hands away. Leaning back in his chair, Greg frowns at the blinds of his office window.

"Fucking idiot…" He grits his teeth and glances at the back of his office door, old black coat hanging there. "I am such…" He sighs again then fists his hand, sits up straight, and picks up his pen.

––––––––––

Greg stands in the doorway to the interrogation room for six minutes before Anderson notices him. Anderson jolts with surprise then freezes just as quickly, staring at Greg. Finally he glances down at the piles of papers, transfer case files, and maps in front of him.

"Anderson, I've already given you two written warnings and suspended you once."

"It was twice."

Greg crosses his arms. "This is affecting your work."

"This is important." Anderson waves a hand over the papers. "I know there is a plan in here somewhere. He has to have some sort of plan of where he is going, where he is going to end up. If I can figure out the plan I can figure out where he will be and then –"

"Anderson, you are obsessed with a fantasy!"

"Fantasy!" Anderson cries and suddenly jumps up from his chair. "Fantasy? The fantasy was what happened at St. Barts. That was a beautifully crafted fantasy."

Greg steps into the small room and closes the door behind him. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop? At this rate, it could cost you your job!"

Anderson makes a derisive noise. "My job that caused the whole situation in the first place?"

"Anderson –"

"You don't understand. You have to give it a chance. If you really see!" He picks up what looks like a twice copied newspaper clipping. "If you could see the signs. So many in Russia alone!"

"You have case work, real case work you need to be doing. I know you care about –"

"About this!" Anderson smacks the table. "About proving the truth." He points violently at Greg. "Proving to you that Sherlock is still alive! He has to be!"

"Anderson, enough!" Greg shouts. "Pack it in and back to your real work. I'm not saying it again!" Greg turns, yanks open the door and marches out before Anderson can spout off once more.

He walks swiftly down the hall straight toward the kitchen. In the kitchen, He picks up the coffee pot and pours the dregs from the morning out in the sink. He thinks about his old French press, Mycroft handing him a cup of coffee in his office, Mycroft pressing him back against his kitchen counter before he leaves in the morning. Greg sighs and has to put the pot down on the counter.

He rubs a hand quickly over his face. "Damn it. Get out of my head."

Greg reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the can of coffee. He frowns without thinking when he sees the cheap brand. He then instantly wishes Mycroft was here so he could punch him in the face.

"Can't even have coffee anymore."

"Greg?"

He turns around to see Donovan behind him. He smiles automatically. She glances at the coffee can in his hand and the empty pot beside him.

"You going to make some or not?"

He frowns and puts the can back in the cabinet. "Not."

"Could nip out and get one instead?"

Greg sighs and turns around to face her. "No. It's not really necessary." He cracks a smile. "Shouldn't over caffeinate, right?"

She nods. "Guess not." She clicks her teeth then clears her throat. "So, I just wanted to say sorry." Greg cocks his head and frowns. "About that relationship of yours not working out."

Greg crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at her. "Oh?"

"Peters told me."

Greg sighs heavily. "How the hell did he know anyway?"

Donovan shrugs. "He's more perceptive then we give him credit for. Hasn't told anyone else I don't think, so don't fire him yet."

Greg chuckles. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I also figured out who it was."

Greg blinks in surprise and his jaw clenches. "Did you?"

"He rarely came here before, only when it was a really serious case we had Sherlock around on. Then you're seeing someone new and suddenly he's in the office every other week? Plus, he's government like you told us at the pub."

Greg snorts quietly. "Should make you detective."

"Yeah. So…" She raises both eyebrows and gives him a searching look. "Really? I mean… I think I only ever spoke to him twice but he was always… Isn't he Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy or something?"

Greg huffs a laugh. "Uh, I guess you could say that."

"Sherlock's brother? Is that some miss directed guilt thing?"

"What? No." Greg uncrosses his arms and rubs his forehead. "Are you trying to be a psychologist or something? No. It was just a normal relationship."

"Normal? With a Holmes?"

Greg rolls his eyes. "Because you and Sherlock were such mates you know it all."

She sighs. "Fine. Sorry."

"This is why I don't talk about my personal life," Greg snaps. He frowns. "Win some other department bet with this, would you?"

She purses her lips and only looks slightly apologetic. "Looks like it's too late now."

––––––––––

Greg sits at the pub with John beside him. They do not usually go to the pub together, different schedules, different haunts and one big empty chair between them. Yet, for some reason they managed it tonight. It feels more like old acquaintances meeting up and, in the end, most of their time spent together before was over dead bodies.

"Not with your sister any more, are you?"

John huffs. "God, no. I could barely stand the few weeks I was."

"New place then?"

"Yeah, it's…" He frowns, takes a drink of his beer and shrugs. "It's all right."

Greg nods. "Know what you mean. I miss having a house sometimes."

"You didn't exactly try for it though, did you?"

Greg shoots him a glare. "You get divorced then talk to me."

John shrugs, glances up at the news program playing above the bar then down again. He takes a long drink of his beer and looks over at Greg. "You know, it's Valentine's Day."

Greg frowns in surprise. He glances around the pub, sees bunches of couples and one man carrying a bouquet of flowers. He looks back at John. "Oh."

John raises his eyebrows. "Shouldn't you be on a date or something?"

Greg sighs and takes a swig of his beer. "Take it you heard?"

John nods. "Yeah."

"It's…" Greg clears his throat. "Well, it is."

John points at Greg with his glass. "Didn't I warn you?"

"Fuck off, John!" Greg snaps.

"Oi! All right!" John snaps back indignantly then he deflates a moment later, shaking his head. "All right, I shouldn't have said… anyway."

"Yeah..."

John drinks the rest of his glass then knocks it back down on the bar. "This mean we're on a date then?"

Greg cracks and laughs once hard. He shakes his head. "Wouldn't that be some kind of incest by proxy?"

"God, Sherlock and I were not a couple!" John groans.

Greg laughs again. "I didn't say that."

John rolls his eyes and waves his hand at the bar tender trying to get his attention. The bar tender comes back over and John orders another for the both of them.

"Look." John turns back to Greg. "You're better off."

"What?"

"The Holmes's were and are insane."

"John…"

"Seriously." John picks up his glass, realizes it is empty then puts it down again. "Look at them. One of them jumps from a building for we don't really know the reason and the other can control CCTV cameras then kidnap you to empty warehouses like that!" John snaps his fingers.

"Had a bad day did you?"

John just snorts. "Bad year."

The bar tender puts two new pints down in front of them and takes John's empty glass away. Greg holds up a finger, downs the last gulp of his first glass then passes it off. "Cheers." Then he turns back to John. "It hasn't been that long."

"Feels like it," John says quietly.

"Look, you're all right. New flat, back at a job, you're all right."

John shakes his head. "Can we not talk about me? Let's talk about you."

Greg sighs. "That's okay."

"I insist. He drop you or you drop him?"

"Come on, John."

"Humor me. My life is a black hole."

"Bit dramatic, aren't ya?"

John laughs with a hollow sound. "Right. So, Mycroft?"

Greg clicks his teeth and turns his beer around slowly on the bar top. "I don't know, it's…" He huffs. "The man's just a…"

"Tosser?"

Greg snorts. "Yeah. Right one too."

"Guess you need to get back on the pull then?"

Greg sighs. "Oh yeah, hot commodity I am and all."

John huffs. "If you say that then I have to too."

"You on the pull right now? Should I be swooning?"

John laughs once. "Just saying, I'm not officially tagging out which means neither are you."

"Right, tell me that when you hit fifty."

John frowns. "You're fifty?"

"Close."

"Then stop complaining."

"I will when you do."

They look at each other then turn back to their beers. They pick up their glasses at the same time and take big gulps before putting them back on bar top.

Greg stares at the rows of liquor on the back of the bar, neat in rows like the matching bottles at Mycroft's house. He knows it's been two some months since Mycroft broke up with him but it still seems to linger with him every day, still there at the back of his mind, still a tingle in his fingertips, a desire. It is driving him mad.

––––––––––

Greg pulls his lien basket out of his closet, picking up a pair of socks off the floor and throwing them in as well. He glances around his bedroom to make sure no rouge t-shirts are hiding in plain sight on a chair or something. It appears Greg has been clean lately as the only item out of place would be his blinds hanging off kilter, one edge hitting the window sill while the left side is still slightly open.

Greg turns around and carries the basket into the kitchen. He crouches low in front of the washer then realizes he needs washing powder. He sighs, puts the basket down then stands up again. He walks back into the hall, glancing into the living room. The couch has a few case file copies on it. Also a book lies on the floor near the window.

"Bloody book…" Greg walks into the living room and picks up the book from where it fell when he knocked it there weeks ago.

He turns it over and looks at the front, "Dr. No" in white letters with the black form of a woman standing among leaves in the background. The inside cover informs Greg the book is a first edition when he flips it open.

Greg scoffs. "You would buy a first edition of a James Bond book. Have to be impressive." He closes the cover again.

Greg walks back across the room, dropping the book on his coffee table as he goes. He stops part way then looks back again, something catching his eye. A red tie sits on the coffee table. It makes him think of three pieces suits and perfect Windsor knots.

He shakes his head hard. "It's my tie. Not his." He rubs his forehead and steps back once, stooping to pick up the tie. He stares at it, thinks about dancing, wearing a bow tie and Mycroft in his arms.

Greg turns sharply and walks back into the hall. He stops in front of his hall closet. Throwing the tie back toward the bedroom, he opens the closet and looks around for the washing powder. He is fairly sure he still has some. If he doesn't then the washing is just going to have to wait because he does not want to go out and buy any now.

Mycroft would say something about being 'unprepared' or 'why not just send your washing out?' Greg smiles and knocks his head gently against one shelf. He wonders if Mycroft actually does send his washing out to be done professionally; with all the suits he wears one would think he would have to.

Greg finally finds the washing powder, pulls it off the shelf then closes the door. He walks back to his kitchen and crouches down in front of the washer beside the sink again. He slides his linen basket to the side and opens the washer door.

Greg tosses in pants and shirts, bundles of socks. Greg lets his hands move, picking up clothes, and thinks maybe it is all his fault. He opens the powder and scoops out what is probably enough, adding it to the pile in the washer and thinks he must have pushed too hard. Door shut and powder box closed, he pushes the linen basket to the side and thinks maybe he was too domestic, too normal, too boring. He turns the dial to setting two, hits the start button and thinks he did not listen enough, he did not try hard enough, he just did not bloody understand. Greg puts the powder box inside of the basket, stands up straight with the basket in hand and thinks it was all his fault. He walks out of the kitchen, back down the hall, and knows he is thinking too much, blaming everything where it should not be. He opens the hall closet, puts the powder back in, and knows he cannot rationalize everything, cannot explain everything, cannot really know what went on inside Mycroft's head. Greg walks back into his bedroom, puts the basket back into his closet and thinks it is still all his fault.

Greg stares at his closet door and shakes his head. "Ridiculous, Greg. You're an adult. Snap out of it."

His brain keeps repeating though, no matter what he says out loud. Greg walks over and sits down on his bed. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and stares at the blank screen. He sighs and shakes his head, stares at the wall instead. Then he pulls up his mobile in front of his face again, clicks it to life. He texts Mycroft one word:

_[11:12] Why?_

Mycroft does not text him back.

––––––––––

Fingers moving quickly over his keyboard, Greg finally finishes entering the last witness statements into the system from his most recent case. He hits enter and flips a page in the hard copy. He has two more forms to input and then he can put the official 'closed' stamp on the case. The case was a kidnapping which somehow ended with no fatalities. Since their department normally deals with murder, having a case with no body count is a rare blessing. He has another case to enter as well as check up with forensics on a current open murder. It seems likely the boyfriend is the culprit but they need the hard evidence first. They have the boyfriend under surveillance just in case.

Greg keeps typing, glancing quickly back and forth between the papers and his laptop screen. A buzzing sound comes from the far drawer of Greg's desk. He stops typing and glances at the drawer. His jaw clenches and he looks back to his screen, typing again. He needs to finish this busy work then solve an open murder. He needs to focus and keep typing and follow up with forensics. The drawer buzzes again. Greg sighs and turns over another page in the case file. He picks up a pen and makes a note about needing the images from the scene.

"Unless they're in..." Greg bites his lip and searches in the system. The digital age does help with getting the crime scene photos into the computer far quicker than when he first started with the force.

He finds the applicable files and makes sure they are all attached to his case record. He glances at the case again, typing another line. A buzzing noise comes from Greg's drawer for a third time.

He smacks a hand on his desk. "Damn it!"

Greg slides his chair to the left and opens the drawer. He pulls out his mobile and clicks the screen to life. Three texts from his mate Chris:

_[10:01] Thinking rugby and pub tonight, you in?_

_[10:01] Might be football and pub instead, you in?_

_[10:02] Maybe just pub. You in?_

Greg sighs heavily, "of course not…" and puts his mobile back in the drawer without answering. "Prat."

Greg rubs his chin – he needs to shave – and forces himself to breathe in slowly. "Okay." He opens his eyes wide and turns his chair back to his laptop.

Then someone knocks at his door. He looks up to see Gupta. He raises both eyebrows.

"Max Summers, the boyfriend, looks like he's on the move."

Greg nods. "Right, stay on him. I'll call forensics."

"Then we take him!" Gupta finishes with a grin. Greg gives her a look and she clears her throat. "Sorry. I'll call the squad car."

Greg picks up his desk phone and rings down to forensics. Anderson picks up on the second ring, "Hello, yes? Hello?"

"Anderson, where are you on the Miller case?"

"Miller?"

"The murdered girl, probably her boyfriend?"

"Uh…" Greg hears some glass clink then something metal clangs loudly. "Bugger. Ah… that, yes, that…"

"Anderson?"

"I will get on that as soon as I can."

"You were supposed to be on that yesterday. Why –"

"Well, you see, I've made a break!"

Greg frowns. "A break in the case?"

"Yes! I sent ahead some photos to a police department in Hong Kong. I know not everyone knows what he looks like and he could be in disguise but, one sergeant I spoke to there seemed to recognize him from a case of theirs; hard to tell a bit with the language barrier."

"Anderson, are you talking about Sherlock?"

"Of course!"

Greg picks up a pencil from his desk and snaps it in half. "Anderson! You have a real case that we need the DNA matched on now, today, five minutes ago! Have you worked on it at all?"

"Of course I have!"

"Well then?"

"Well… that is I haven't actually run the –"

"Anderson, what do you think your job here is? You need to work on your cases here, on real cases, on deaths which need to be solved!"

"Lestrade, this is important –"

"Go mad on your own time, Philip! You have that forensic data for me in half an hour or I'll suspend you again!"

"But I –"

Greg hangs up the phone. "Bloody mother fucking wanker Christ hell." Greg hits his forehead on his desk once then snaps upright again with his eyes scrunched closed. "I'm going to kill him. I am going to kill him. Kill. Him."

Greg pushes his chair back then stands up. He opens his top drawer and picks up his mobile. He pulls up Mycroft's number and starts to text then stops half way through 'I may kill a coworker today.' He stares at his mobile, blinks twice then erases the text. He stares at Mycroft's name and wonders if he should just delete the number all together.

"Sir?" Gupta pops her head in his door. "He's running."

Greg snaps back to life and shoves his mobile in his pocket. "Right. Let's head out."

––––––––––

Greg paces back and forth in the MET parking garage, cigarette half smoked in his hand. It is his second one since coming down here but at least his mobile has not rung with someone from upstairs needing him. They have not had any fresh murders today but the pile of open cases is not exactly small either. So Greg paces, cigarette in one hand and mobile in the other. He did not plan on starting to smoke again and certainly not regularly. People fall back into familiar patterns when under stress or as a result of trauma; they fall back on the familiar.

Greg huffs to himself and takes another drag of his cigarette. "Trauma, right…"

He keeps looking at the screen of his mobile, counts the days, the weeks since he's spoken to Mycroft. It should not be like this. Greg should not keep thinking about him. He should stop. He clicks on the screen of his mobile. Yes, he does get service in here and isn't that just some sort of fucking sign? He dials Mycroft's number, flicking ash off his cigarette.

"Yes?"

Greg's eyebrows fly up at the mere fact that Mycroft answered. "Mycroft."

They are both silent for two beats then Mycroft clears his throat. "You do realize you called me, yes?"

Greg frowns and takes another drag of his cigarette. "I do, just surprised you answered."

"Well, I answered. How much of my time do you now plan to take up with shouting?"

"I'm not shouting!" Greg snaps.

Mycroft grumbles, "Predictable."

Greg bites his lip and represses the urge to shout again. He shakes his head, paces to the right two steps then back again. "I am not shouting."

"What do you want?"

"I…" Greg glances back toward the metal door to the stairs and rapidly flicks the end of his cigarette. "I texted you."

"And?"

"And you didn't."

Mycroft scoffs harshly. "Dear God, D.I. Lestrade are you investigating the absence of text messages now?"

"All right!" Greg snaps. "Don't have to be an arse about it. I just…" He sighs and takes another quick sucks of his cigarette. "I know I hung up on you when we last spoke…"

"I have had no sleepless nights over it, I can assure you."

"That's not the point! We…" Greg bites the edge of his lip and shakes his head. "We should be able to talk like normal people."

"Why exactly, D.I. Lestrade? There is no more connection between us and no need for us to talk, normal or otherwise."

"If you call me D.I. Lestrade again I will drive over to your house and smash a window!" Greg barks suddenly.

"Then you would be forced to arrest yourself," Mycroft replies dryly.

"I'd let myself off on a technicality."

"Based on insanity?"

"I'm just trying to talk to you, Mycroft, come on!"

He hears Mycroft breathe in and out. "Greg, there is nothing to talk about."

"Yes, there is, I think there is!"

"Stop. Need I say it yet another time? Have you not dragged this along enough?"

"Mycroft, I just…" Greg sighs and knows he is going to have a third cigarette down here. "I'm not saying take me back but I want –"

"Do you know how many other nationally important things I should be attending to now over speaking to you?"

"You can't just expect to drop someone out of nowhere and have no repercussions, Mycroft! Haven't you ever been in a break up before of are you really that thick?" Greg regrets it the minute he says it.

The line is silent for a minute then Mycroft speaks in his 'angry with my brother' tone. "Do you know the kind of repercussions I am capable of initiating, Detective Inspector, simply for wasting my time? Do not test my patience."

Greg tosses his cigarette onto the pavement. "Don't pull your hush, hush government crap with me, Mycroft! Are you going to have me shot for being angry you broke up with me? I thought I was supposed to be the petty one, not you?"

"You are the one who is constantly calling."

"It's been weeks!"

"Who insists on calling to talk of nothing?"

"Oh? Nothing?"

"You are acting like a child, like some ridiculous adolescent."

"I am acting hurt, that is how I am acting, Mycroft. There is a difference!"

The line falls silent again. Greg's hand twitches near his pocket but he does not reach in to pull out his pack of cigarettes yet.

"The point to all this is simple, Greg, I do not care," Mycroft says – voice low and quiet and like he was talking to any police constable that happened to step in his way. "I have work of national security and international terrorism to be doing which requires far more of my undivided attention and care than one man with a wounded heart."

Greg cannot breathe. "You bloody bastard."

The line clicks off. Greg drops his arm and his mobile slips out of his hand onto the cement. He does not pick it up again until he finishes a third cigarette.

––––––––––

"You're up to a pack a day again, aren't you?"

Greg rolls his eyes. "No and I never have been, thank you."

"But it's more than the one a month because you had that extra pint at the pub, right?"

"Obviously if you're smoking too."

Claire giggles and flicks ash off the end of her cigarette. "True. So…" She turns her hand holding her cigarette around, inspecting it like crime scene evidence. "Four or five a day then? One in the morning, two around lunch and then the evening depends?"

Greg shrugs. "Sounds right."

"I'm trying to keep it at three."

"What's your excuse this time?" Greg blows out a sharp line of smoke. "Kids? Work?"

"My kids are acting like suspicious angels and we just closed a new contract to make a print ad for Sony so work is on the upswing."

"You're going to blame me, aren't you?"

She shrugs. "Every time you start smoking again so do I."

"It goes both ways. Remember when the twins hit one year old? That was you."

Claire snorts. "You'd think we were the twins."

"With three years in between."

Claire takes a drag of her cigarette and crosses her arms. "You're going to have to start us on the quitting train again, you know. It's your turn."

Greg shrugs. "Kind of enjoying the regular reasons for isolation."

"Oh god, you're going maudlin. You must be in the depressed phase of your break up." Greg frowns but says nothing. Claire turns to him and points with her cigarette hand. "You have to. You're the older sibling who needs to set good examples." She takes another drag. "And I am not getting lung cancer."

"Take David's example then. When's the last time he smoked?"

"Nineteen."

"Exactly."

Claire sighs. "Come on, my backyard is not exciting enough to visit daily."

Greg cocks his head and points at the large tree near the edge of the property. "Even without the tire swing, you have to admit your tree is good for climbing."

"I'm not the one climbing it."

"You could."

"You're hilarious."

"Sometimes."

Claire sighs again then steps up to the half wall around the edge of her deck and stubs out the rest of her cigarette in the porcelain ashtray. "Greg, come on, you didn't drive over here just to banter."

"I wanted to see you."

"I don't doubt that but you can have a dual purpose." She stands up straight again and turns to look at him as she pushes curls out of her eyes. "If you want to talk about him we can."

Greg slides his free hand into his trouser pocket and smokes some more of his cigarette. "Nothing to talk about."

Claire snorts. "Right."

Greg shrugs. "What's there to say? He's an arse. I'm single and smoking again."

She raises one eyebrow and takes two steps closer to him. "You know, you talk to David when you're in your relationships and you talk to me when you come out of them."

"You saying we haven't talked in a while?"

"I'm saying you have a pattern."

"Thank you."

"If you don't want to talk, we don't have to. We could just go get lunch somewhere and down five pints."

Greg cracks a smile. "Trying to be David, are you?"

"Isn't he the cool one? I can be cool."

Greg smirks, takes another drag then blows the smoke out. "Sure, Claire."

She purses her lips. "I'm plenty cool."

"I think after forty most people are no longer 'cool.'"

"Oh dear, the cynic Greg returns." She makes a 'tsk tsk' noise and shakes her head. "How much of a number did Mycroft do to you?"

Greg glances down at the wood of the deck – dark brown and in need of a pressure wash – then up again. "I was really happy."

Claire presses her lips together then says quietly, "yeah, you were."

Claire puts her arm around Greg's back and leans her head on his shoulder, just the right height for her. Greg rubs his hand over her back once then drops his arm again. Claire pulls her head up and kisses Greg on the cheek.

"You'll be happy again."

Greg laughs once. "I know, know I will. Just need to get past," he waves his cigarette hand in the air, "all this."

"You know, they say that you take the length of the relationship and half that time is how long it's supposed to take you to get over the relationship afterward. Wouldn't that put you at four, five months for the recovery period?"

"By that logic it would take me six years to get over Anne."

Claire bites her lip. "My point is, it's just March now. You've had about two and a half months. Just two more and you should be good!"

Greg laughs once. "I'd rather it be quicker."

"Then make it quicker. Get over him."

"I'm trying."

"Are you?" Greg gives her a sharp look but Claire does not flinch away. She pulls her arm off of his back and crosses it over her other arm. "Twelve year marriage and then right into another serious relationship?" Greg opens his mouth but Claire puts up a hand to stop him. She reaches out again and touches his arm. "Maybe some time alone is just what you really need."

––––––––––

"Right, so we have Megan Hobbs, Diane Blake, and Christopher Smith." Greg turns around and points at Bell. "Change up?"

"I know, not just women."

"We sure?" Brooks asks.

Clipton and Avery laugh at the same time and Bell rolls her eyes. Anderson holds up his forensics report. "Quite sure. Go ask Hooper if you want to be certain, she did the autopsy."

Brooks frowns. "I believe you."

"The point is, if it is a serial murderer, we'll need a new MO."

"I don't think it is," Bell says waving a hand toward the board. "There has to be a connection between them. Christopher and Megan worked in the same shop after all. Maybe there's some personal relationship in there."

"I still have some friends and family to interview," Brooks says.

Greg nods. "Right, get on that. Take Avery." Avery makes a 'score' motion with his hand and jumps up to follow Brooks. Greg nods toward Bell, "You and Anderson go over the reports from the crime scenes, see what matches up." He turns to Anderson. "Have you run the finger prints?"

"Yes, a few matches we should look into."

Greg raises his eyebrows but resists praising Anderson for actually doing his job properly for once in too many weeks. Instead he nods. "Good, you two get on that. And Clipton, you're on CCTV video."

Clipton only frowns a little as he stands up. "I'll go to records."

"Thank you. Send me any witness statements left and if the press calls give the usual 'no comment.'"

Anderson trots up to Greg as Bell and Clipton walk out the door, Bell waiting just outside, craning her neck to see why Anderson walked the wrong way. Anderson holds out a blue folder to Greg.

Greg frowns and takes it. "What's this?"

"Just open it."

Greg flips it open and sees the words, '_Empty Hearse Society Bi–Monthly Report_.' He snaps it closed again. "My God, Anderson, what?"

"Now, now." Anderson holds up his hands. "I know you haven't been so receptive but just give it a chance. It's not just me looking into this now. I have supporters."

"Supporters? You running for office?"

Anderson gives Greg a withering look. "No need for sass, Lestrade." Greg's mouth drops open in surprise but Anderson keeps going. "Read it and you'll see the number of foreign cases that seem to imply outside assistance or intervention. There are also a number of theories on the death faking, some more plausible than others, of course. There are also some tenuous sightings. But, but –"

"But you've finally cracked." Greg rubs the bridge of his nose. "Thought that you seemed better but it's worse." He drops his hand. "You've cracked."

"Cracked? Pft!" Anderson shakes his head. "I couldn't be clearer! I know I am getting closer and closer to the truth. He doesn't make it easy, of course, man as smart as Sherlock never would. Plus, I think his older brother is helping him. You know, the scary one that's some government figure?"

Greg swallows slowly. "Mycroft."

"Yes, that's it. Mycroft Holmes!" Anderson grins and gives Greg a pat on the shoulder like he is a PC who made his first arrest. "I kept wondering how it could be Sherlock got out of the country without someone knowing or seeing or there being some record. He could have had a fake passport of course, but –"

Greg breathes in and out slowly. "Anderson –"

"But his brother is definitely some big shot. You remember how he'd appear every now and then, black cars and the creepy knowledge of everything."

"Anderson, please stop."

"He has to know the truth that Sherlock is alive!"

Greg shoves the blue folder hard into Anderson's chest. "Enough. Get out. Get on to this case." He points at the white board behind him then to the folder. "And keep your fantasy group. I don't want to hear any more."

"But."

"Out. Now. Go."

Anderson turns around and goes. Once the glass door closes Greg breathes out again. For a moment he wonders how Anderson couldn't have known but maybe Donovan and Peters can keep their mouths shut after all. He leans back against one table and crosses his arms.

"The scary one…" Greg mutters to himself. He smiles but it falls back down to flat almost immediately.

Greg pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He pulls up Mycroft's name. His thumb hovers over the call icon.

Suppose he clicks it, dials through, Mycroft answers, Greg says 'I miss you,' says 'I never said I love you,' says 'did you secretly get your fake dead brother out of country and not tell me?' Greg clicks the screen off and taps his mobile against his forehead.

"Crazy as Anderson." He drops his hand and stares around the empty conference room.

If he called, he would say 'I keep thinking of you and I want to stop. Please make it stop.'

Greg shakes his head and stands up straight again, stuffing his mobile back into his jacket pocket. He walks over to the white board and picks up the papers sitting on the desk beside it. He lets his eyes coast over the victim names, the leads, the times and dates. Then he turns and walks out in the direction of his office.

––––––––––

Greg stands in front of his stove with green peppers and onions frying in a pan. He has some chicken and rice waiting to be added as well. He pushes the vegetables around with his spatula so they hiss and pop. From beside the pan, he picks up a slice of lemon he cut earlier and squeezes it over the vegetables so the whole pan hisses again. He puts the squished up lemon down and picks up the plate of chicken instead, tilting the plate over the pan until all the chicken slides in. He puts the empty plate aside while shifting the stir fry around the pan.

Stir fry certainly isn't the height of his cooking prowess but not every night can be a masterpiece. Greg puts the spatula down, end balanced on the edge of the pan. He reaches across the counter and picks up his glass of wine. He takes a quick sip then goes to put it down again. He stops part way, realization dawning, then stares at his hand. He puts his hand down so the glass knocks loudly against the counter.

"Oh my god."

Greg stares at the glass still wrapped by his palm. He opened and poured wine without even thinking about it; wine that has been sitting above his refrigerator for months; wine he would never get himself over beer; wine that Mycroft bought. Greg stares at the glass, the red liquid. He has to breathe in and out slowly but his throat still feels tight. Greg abruptly lets go of the glass, nearly spilling some wine onto the counter. He rubs at his eyes even though no tears have fallen.

"Bollocks." He breathes in deeply. "Bloody daft." He huffs. "It's just wine."

Greg fists his one hand and shakes his head. He considers throwing the glass of wine on the floor so it shatters everywhere. But he is not angry anymore; he is just sad. Greg takes a step back and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He clicks Mycroft's number.

Mycroft answers after the fifth right with a heavy sigh. "Greg..."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to shout," Greg says right away. "Just calling to apologize."

Mycroft does not answer for a beat, obviously surprised. "Apologize?"

"I know relationships are not your strong suit and I haven't been making our..." He clears his throat. "Well, I haven't made it easy on you now that it's over and well... I'm sorry."

"I..."

"Look," Greg continues before Mycroft can, "break ups are usually a mess, I was rude and irrational and... well, you can have whatever reasons you want."

"Thank you," Mycroft says quietly.

"Nothing wrong with being congenial," Greg adds, forcing his voice into an up space.

Mycroft laughs once politely.

"Though, uh..." Greg looks down at his kitchen floor. "If you'd rather… if you'd rather just cut it off… well, we can."

"I... cut it off?"

"If you never want to talk to me again, Mycroft," Greg says bluntly.

"No! I –" Mycroft stops suddenly for a second then goes on, "no, that is not the case."

"No?"

"No."

"Right." Greg glances at the stir fry, probably close to burning on one side. "So, uh... that's it."

"I... thank you."

"You're welcome, Mycroft." He hangs up without saying goodbye.

Greg decides to move on.


	4. Letting Go

"What do you mean termination?" Anderson laughs breathlessly. "Terminated how?"

"I'm saying you're sacked, Philip. I'm sorry."

"Sacked!" Anderson's voice squeaks in the middle of the word.

Greg sighs and threads his fingers together on his desk. "You have two weeks until your end date and –"

"'End date,' my God," Anderson gasps out.

Greg sighs again and picks up the packet off of his desk, holding it out to Anderson. "Here." Anderson just stares at him. "Go on, take it. It's important."

Anderson reaches out with a limp hand and takes the envelope.

"I protected you as long as I could but this comes from above me." He drops the volume of his voice. "I did try to warn you. I know it's been hard for you."

"Hard? Ha!" Anderson's hand fists around the envelope. "Hard is an interesting word when everyone seems to think what you're saying is mad."

"Anderson..."

"I have been trying to fix things and this is what I get?" He shakes the envelope and hits it against the edge of Greg's desk. "Hmm?"

Greg leans back in his chair. "What you're been doing has cost you your job, Anderson, end of story. I will do what I can to see if they will appeal, maybe take you back after a provisional period and a psych eval."

"A psych eval!" Anderson grips the envelope with both hands and smacks it down onto his lap. "Now that is rich. I'm the only one who's opening their eyes around here and you say _I_ should be having the psych eval?"

"You've neglected all of your case work, almost cost us convictions... Anderson, I'm sorry but this is it."

Anderson breathes in slowly and nods. "Right."

"Two weeks to wrap up what you've got left on your plate." Greg lays his hands flat on his desk. "Or I can reassign your work load and you can leave today."

"That what you'd rather do, is it?"

"I'm saying you can be on our books for two more weeks and maybe use that time to find yourself a new job instead of coming in," Greg insists."Got it?"

Anderson nods. "Right. I see."

"I won't be announcing this until your real end date."

"Pft." Anderson shakes his head. "Don't keep the news away from the division for my sake."

"Anderson..."

"I'm sure they'll be quite pleased."

"Come on!" Greg snaps. "Don't have to be like that."

"How's that? Displeased? Angry?"

"A twat." Anderson's eyebrows fly up and his mouth drops open but Greg waves a hand. "Look, Anderson, done is done. It might be good for you to get away from all this for a while, clear your head."

"Clear my head."

"Yes."

He huffs. "The access I have here is necessary for–"

"Do not say anything about Sherlock or I'll take back the two weeks."

"Oh? Stop me coming in, will you?"

"Do you want to lose your full benefits?"

Anderson scoffs.

Greg breathes in slowly and out again. "You've done good work here, Anderson. Now you just need to move on and pick yourself back up, all right?"

Anderson stares at Greg, frowns and looks away. Then he breathes in deeply and stands up. He looks back at Greg and nods. "Right." Then he turns and walks swiftly out of Greg's office, letting the door slam a bit too loudly behind him.

Greg stares at the door for two beats then breathes out a sigh through his nose. He rubs his forehead and taps the mouse of his laptop, bringing his screen to life. He needs to write a report about Anderson and submit it today. How depressing is it to enter into a computer form that you just fucked up someone's life?

Greg reaches across his desk and picks up his mobile. He selects David and Claire into a text and sends:

_[09:30] Just had to sack someone. Great day._

He slides his mobile away from him, knocking lightly into a stack of files. He turns back to his laptop and clicks into the 'reason' section of the termination form. He types 'guilt' then deletes it.

Across the desk where he slid it Greg's mobile buzzes. He glances over and sees a text back from David:

_[09:31] Dropkick?_

Greg huffs and grins. Before he can turn back to his computer again a text from Claire comes up as well:

_[09:31] Did you make them cry?_

At that Greg grins more and laughs just a little.

––––––––––

Greg stands in Claire's backyard with a jump rope spread out on the ground behind him. In front of him, Kate and John guard a pair of traffic cones a couple meters apart. Greg keeps hold of a football against the ground with one foot. He cocks his head to the side then jerks with his upper body but does not kick the ball. Kate and John both take steps forward then stop just as quickly.

"Hey!" Kate snaps.

"Play fair!" John also snaps.

Greg smiles. "Just making sure you're paying attention."

"Mom says to play fair," Kate insists.

"She's not here, is she?"

"She'd say not to tease us," John says and raises both his eyebrows looking very much like Claire.

Greg grins. "All right then." Greg pulls his foot back and kicks the ball lightly forward to Kate and John. "Your ball then."

Kate gets to it first, knocking it right toward John. He stops it then moves it forward toward Greg. Greg keeps his eyes on both of them, moving back just two steps. Then John passes back to Kate and moves closer to Greg to block him.

"You know it's not a proper game with only the three of us," John says.

"You want to stop?"

"And it's two against one," Kate adds, kicking the ball lightly between her feet.

"Well, I'm taller."

"Your feet are in the same place," Kate says and kicks the ball back over to John who tries to slide to the left around Greg with the ball but Greg moves into his path.

"They are." Greg darts forward and kicks the ball away from John. He cuts between them but Kate jumps back then kicks out the ball from Greg's dribble so he nearly trips over her foot.

Kate and John cheer together even though the ball shoots away off their 'field' and hits the deck. Greg grins and claps his hands at them.

He points at the deck. "You kicked it, you get it."

Kate sighs and sticks her tongue out at Greg before jogging to where the ball rests at the deck stairs.

"So, mum said we're not going to see your boyfriend again," John says as Kate dribbles the ball back over in front of her.

Greg raises his eyebrows. "Did she say why?"

"Because he's not your boyfriend anymore."

"I didn't get to meet him at all," Kate pouts as she passes the ball to John.

"I didn't meet him. I only saw him," John corrects her as he tries to pop the ball up with his toe.

"The two of you were busy running around at Uncle David's birthday party, if you remember, so whose fault is that?"

"Aw, you can't say that," Kate whines as John grumps, "Not the whole time."

Greg grins. "All right, all right." He kicks the ball lightly away from John's futile attempts. "Sorry about that but I'm not seeing him anymore so you don't need to worry." Greg bounces the ball with his toe twice then pops it up and catches it with his thigh.

John gasps and jumps up, balling his hands into excited fists. Kate giggles and bumps John with her shoulder.

"Do you think he'd have liked us?" Kate asks as Greg bounces the football up and down on his thigh.

Greg frowns. "He'd be daft not to, wouldn't he?"

"Ha!" John grins widely then suddenly knocks the ball off of Greg's leg.

"Hands!" Kate snaps. "Out of the game!"

"You're not the referee!"

"Still no hands, John," Greg says and walks over to where the football flew.

"Maybe I'm the goalie."

Kate scoffs. "You're not."

"We both are."

"Not in that kind of a play."

"It wasn't a play at all!"

"We could _actually_ play again," Greg interrupts through the twin squabble. He kicks the ball back toward the center. "You haven't gotten a goal on me yet, right?"

"We will," Kate says, "two against one."

"But I'm taller."

"You already made that joke," Kate groans.

"What was your boyfriend's name?" John asks.

Greg frowns. "Why this interest in someone you're not going to meet now?"

John shrugs. "It's just weird you had a boyfriend."

Greg laughs once and kicks the ball between his feet. "People sometimes do."

"It's just weird that _you_ did," Kate clarifies.

Greg bites the edge of his lip then looks up at the twins. "Because I'm a boy?"

John frowns. "Because it was always you and Aunt Anne."

"Oh." Greg breathes out slowly. "You're right. Must have been weird to you."

"Yes," Kate and John say together.

Greg kicks the ball once to start but keeps it this time before dribbling slowly toward the twins. Kate starts forward on his left so Greg cuts to the right in between her and John. John tries to kick out the ball but Greg manages to kick the ball between John's legs and get it back. However, Kate doubles around in between Greg and the goal again.

"Are you going to get back together with Aunt Anne?" John asks from behind Greg.

Greg jerks his head back in surprise and Kate sharply kicks the ball away from Greg's foot toward John. John stops it with his foot then quickly turns and swings his leg back into a kick, sending the ball flying over Greg's jump rope. John and Kate cheer as the ball hits the garden fence and rolls back along the grass.

"Gotchya!" John cries as Kate shouts, "goal!"

Greg puts his hands on his hips. "Didn't you both say something about playing fair?"

John claps his hands. "All is fair at our house!"

Greg sighs. "And this is why I don't mind you two when your parents are out."

John cackles and twirls around instead of answering. Kate steps up beside Greg and nudges his arm with her shoulder. He looks down at her and she smiles up through her bangs.

"Are you though," Kate asks quietly, "going to get back together with Aunt Anne?"

"Probably not, Katydid."

Her lips twist into a curiously Claire-like expression. "Probably?"

"I don't think so, Kate. I haven't seen your aunt in a while but we haven't talked about it." He touches her hair and ruffles it around once. "You'll still see us both, just probably not together."

"I liked you together," John says, plopping himself down cross-legged in the grass.

"You trying to tell me I'm not fun on my own?"

Kate and John both laugh. John points back at the football. "We beat you in football!"

"And wasn't that fun?"

"Yes!" Kate and John say together again.

"Well, get the ball and you can try again," Greg says, gesturing toward the ball at the fence.

John jumps up and runs over to the ball.

Beside him, Kate pokes Greg in the arm with one hand. "Never met your boyfriend though. John said he was taller than you."

Greg smiles. "Not by much."

"Too bad you broke up. He could have been another uncle!"

Then the football suddenly hits Kate sharply in the shins. Kate shouts angrily at John and runs toward him, John doubled over with laughter. Greg watches them chase each other for a minute then glances up at the sky, breathing in and out slowly.

––––––––––

Greg has lasagna cooking in the oven for another twenty minutes, the coffee pot heating up for an ill–advised second mug of the evening, while Greg sits on his couch with a small box on his coffee table. Inside the box is a black on black checkered silk tie, an unopened box of Yorkshire Gold, a packet of dried pineapple, and a hardback version of "Dr. No" by Ian Fleming. It may be a small collection but these are the only items left in Greg's flat which came from Mycroft.

He looked through kitchen cabinets, pushed into the back or in the wrong drawer. He pulled everything out of his closet, moved boxes which had not been touched in a year. He found less than he expected because doesn't everyone have those pieces from exes they don't notice until they force themselves to look? However, Mycroft never left much of himself lying around.

It was really the book that took the most effort to put into the box. Greg did not send it back with the other gifts before. He never moved it off of his coffee table, minus whenever it was thrown in anger. Yet he never read any more of it since their break up. The bookmark still rests between pages one-eighty-nine and one-ninety. Greg knows he is never going to finish reading it and it is not because he has some dislike for James Bond.

"To move on…" Greg mutters.

He is not going to drink the tea – always Mycroft's brand. He is not going to eat the pineapple – an odd dessert or snack he never warmed to. He is never going to wear the tie – it's not his, who does that? He is not going to finish the book – apologies to Ian Fleming.

Greg hears the beep of his coffee pot indicating the brewing is done. He smells the lasagna cooking but not quite the coffee.

The only problem Greg has now is what to do with these things. He is not going to send them back to Mycroft. It does seem petty now nor are the items very valuable. Regifting things from a significant other also does not seem like a viable option. However, it would be a waste to throw such perfectly good things away.

Greg sits and stares at the box for ten minutes thinking about early mornings and calm nights until his oven timer beeps. He glances toward the kitchen then stands up. "Right."

Greg finally tapes the box closed with packing tape and writes 'MH' on one side in black sharpie. He puts the box on the top shelf, back corner of his bedroom closet with the 'MH' hidden against the wall.

––––––––––

Peters pops his head in Greg's office door around four and holds up a travel cup which Greg recognizes as from the coffee place a few streets away from the New Scotland Yard building.

He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "Didn't I tell you something about not getting me coffee a few months ago?"

"You said 'not your errand boy.'"

"And did you forget that?"

Peter shakes his head. "It's not an errand, it's a bribe."

"A bribe?"

"I need next Friday off."

Greg purses his lips. "Surprise wedding?"

Peters chuckles and steps into Greg's office. "No." He walks around Greg's desk and puts the coffee right in front of Greg. "So, you might not believe this but I am in a band."

"A band?"

"And we have a gig."

"This is a need?"

Peter leans against Greg's desk and grimaces. "Okay, maybe not 'need' but requesting?"

Greg blows out a breath. He looks at the open case files on his desk. "Case load is light." He shakes his head from side to side, weighing it, then points at Peters with one hand. "Fine, but you're still on call for anything serious."

"Thank you!"

Greg frowns. "You're in a band?"

Peter grins. "It's casual, playing covers in pubs and such and usually I know in advance to work around and all but we got a last minute paying thing, so wanted to hop on."

"You are in a band," Greg repeats.

"Yes."

"A band."

"Yes, I play bass."

"You're Paul McCartney, are you?"

Peters shrugs. "I was thinking more John Paul Jones, mystique."

Greg snorts and chuckles. "Right."

"You should come." Peters smiles and waves a hand in the air. "If you're freed from here."

Greg laughs once and shakes his head. "Might be a bit over the age range there."

Peters laughs. "No! Plus, I'd vouch for and if you have the support of the band you might get a free pint." Peters grins and nudges Greg's arm. "Better incentive? Seriously, you'd like us."

Greg laughs again, the idea of free pints due to bands reminding him too much of twenty-one, then his face freezes. Posture, smiles, physical contact – Peters is flirting with him.

"Back to work Peters."

Peters' smile sticks in a surprised way. "What?"

"You have witness statements to review. Get to it."

Peters stands up straight again and clears his throat. "Uh, yes, right. Back to work. Thank you, sir." Then he turns and walks from Greg's office, flashing a smile over his shoulder as he goes.

Greg frowns and drums his fingers on his desk. "I should probably reprimand him..." Greg frowns more and stares at his empty door. "Probably." He wants to go home and drink a tall beer alone, very much alone.

"Hi." Donovan knocks on his door with the back of her hand as she walks in. "Completed intake forms for the Brooks case are in the system now. Also, we've got a request for a consultation with the drug squad. They want to borrow some of us."

"Did you know Peters is in a band?"

Donovan frowns. "What?"

"He plays bass."

"Isn't he over thirty by now?"

Greg breathes in sharply. "Fucking hell, I hope so."

"Are people in bands after their twenties?" She frowns more then she narrows her eyes at him. "And how do you know that?"

Swallowing once, Greg glances at his computer then back to Donovan. "Thank you for the information, Donovan. I'll call drugs about that."

She purses her lips then nods. "Craig Fisher is on point."

As Donovan turns away, Greg tries to think of something to ensure he is quite busy next Friday. An insane part of him wants to phone Mycroft and shout at him for allowing Greg to be now available for subordinates to peruse.

––––––––––

"My son has a horrible girlfriend."

Greg snorts and takes another drink of his beer. "Oh yes."

"Don't mock!" David snaps. He leans forward over the table. "She has a car and it is always playing Ellie Goulding and Marian and the Diamonds at ridiculous volumes and then somehow she brings it into the house on her iphone and it keeps playing over and over in my son's room and –" David picks up his beer glass then knocks it on the table for emphasis. "And she is always at our house, as if she lives there, like I have a daughter."

"How do you even know these… I assume music artist names?"

"A daughter!" David sighs. "I was fine without a daughter."

"Talk to Claire."

"She also has bleached blond hair and dresses in skirts the size of napkins!"

"Napkins?"

"Did I mention a trend in union jacks on her… everything?"

Greg bites his lip so he does not laugh and picks up his beer to hide it, taking another drink.

"Rory just needs to have sex with her then dump her!"

Greg nearly chokes on his beer. "David!" He clears his throat and puts his glass down. "Aren't you supposed to be encouraging love and wise decisions in your children?"

"He's eighteen. I'll give him two years to screw around."

"At university?"

David groans. "God, as long as he takes her with him."

"She can't be that bad."

David grabs a handful of nuts from the bowl between them. "She brought us a tofu loaf!"

Greg frowns. "She's _not_ a lesbian?"

"Not yet it seems." He shoves the nuts in his mouth then chugs some more of his beer. "Can we talk about you?"

"What about me?"

"Anything."

Greg shrugs. "There's nothing new really."

"No Mycroft phone calls or in person rows?"

Greg laughs once. "No, sorry. I'm moving on."

David bites the edge of his lip. "Hmm."

"Shouldn't you be happy about that?" Greg points at David. "You were the one who jumped straight to revenge schemes when I first told you we split up."

"That's my sacred duty as older brother. I won't shrink from that."

"Unless I tell you to."

"Which you did." David sips his beer and frowns. "Unfortunately."

"It was for your own safety."

"So, do you really think you two won't get back together?"

Greg frowns. "Are you... do you want us to?"

"I only want what you want."

Greg frowns more. "And you think that's Mycroft?"

"Yep."

Greg sighs and rolls his eyes. "Hilarious."

David shrugs. "I'm not joking."

"Aren't you supposed to be on my side, David?" Greg snaps.

"I am on your side. I think you two were better for each other than either of you realize and Mycroft made a big mistake letting you go."

"Well, I agree with that."

David smiles and draws a circle in the air with his finger. "Brings it back."

Greg taps his glass against David's. "Winning brother."

"And now you are open again to the never ending wash of love from the single women and men of greater London. Beware world, Greg Lestrade is single yet again."

Greg clears his throat. "About that. One of my PCs is hitting on me."

David pauses with his beer half way up to his mouth. "Excuse me?"

"One of my PC's, as in Police Constable, my subordinates."

"I've heard you say PC about six thousand times and I do live in England."

"Right. Well, one of them is hitting on me."

"Hitting as in flirting, not smacking you in the face?" Greg gives David an incredulous look and David blows out a breath. "Wow, Greg, you really are working this silver fox angle."

Greg shuts his eyes. "Please tell me you did not just use the phrase 'silver fox.'"

"Sorry, you're right, I deserve that title."

"Enjoy it." Greg opens his eyes again. "I'm not."

"Why don't you just tell her..." Greg shakes his head. "Him?" Greg nods. David whistles then laughs once. "Damn Greg. But, why don't you just tell him no?"

"Because then I've acknowledged it."

David frowns and picks up a cashew out of the nut bowl. "You're playing a tricky game there, Lestrade."

"All part of the cop life, Lestrade."

They smile at each other and clack bottles together again, David tossing back a few more mixed nuts.

"But you do miss him, don't you?" David asks.

Greg sighs. "I..." He looks up at David then looks at the wall beside them. "Of course I do."

David smiles. "Good."

"Good?" Greg looks at David again.

"Just want to be sure you're still my same, wonderful, secretly romantic little brother."

Greg sighs. "I hate you."

David smirks. "No, you don't."

"No, I don't." Greg smiles back.

––––––––––

When they enter the building, three stories and two flats on each level, the door to their suspect's flat on the right hangs wide open with light spilling out into the dim hall. Greg holds up his hand and points Gupta left while Banks takes point into the flat, Donovan and Avery right behind him.

"Bradford," Greg hisses quietly and points to the main door.

He just nods and jams his foot into the crack so the door stays open then puts his back to it. Greg brings up the rear as Avery follows Donovan into the flat, guns at the ready and Banks already inside.

"Bedroom clear!" Greg hears Banks say from somewhere ahead of them.

"Hall clear!" Gupta calls from behind him.

"Kitchen cl – shit!" Avery shouts and a gunshot goes off.

Greg swings his gun up but suddenly someone slams him into the wall, his head smacking hard into the edge of a door frame. He sees the blur of a man running past and stumbles against the wall, head stabbing and swimming.

"On him!" he hears Donovan shout and sees a blur as she runs by.

"Oi! Don't move! Police!" Greg hears Banks shout from still inside the flat.

"Bloody pig –"

"I said, don't move!"

Greg forces himself upright and runs back out into the hall. Gupta has her gun pointed upward at the stairs and Greg sees the tail end of Donovan running up.

"Gupta!" She looks at Greg quickly. "Help Banks and Avery!" She runs past Greg into the flat as Greg turns toward the stairs and shouts over his shoulder, "Bradford, no one but us goes out!"

"Yes, sir!"

Greg takes the stairs two at time, fighting through the pain in his head. His vision blurs for one nauseating moment then he hits the second floor.

"Donovan!" He shouts.

"Stop! Police!" She shouts still ahead of him at their suspect.

He hears the crack of wood and Donovan grunting. He hears a man's voice say something unintelligible. Greg keeps moving, sees Donovan just ahead of him as he runs up the stairs again.

"Freeze, don't –"

Then Greg hears a gunshot and Donovan falls back against the wall on the landing before the next turn of the stairs up to the third floor. He sees blood on her waist, blood on the white walls, and he swings around in front of her, gun up, at the edge of stairs. He sees the man standing at the top on the third floor, black handgun pointed down.

One second the man cocks his gun again – two seconds Greg fires first – three seconds the man drops his gun, it rolling down the stairs, and falls to his knees – four seconds the blood seeps through his pale blue shirt from the wound in his chest – five seconds Greg spins around to Donovan slumped against the wall – six seconds the man's gun hits the landing beside Greg's foot and Greg starts shouting.

"Bradford!" Greg falls to his knees beside Donovan, putting his gun aside and holds his hands over the blood on her stomach. "Call paramedics!"

"Sir?" Bradford calls from below.

"Paramedics, now!"

"I… I didn't …" Donovan gasps.

"Quiet." Greg presses down and Donovan cries out in pain. "Look at me, all right? Can't pass out yet."

She groans and her eyes roll up and around, breath coming harsh and fast. She suddenly grabs Greg's shirt in a tight, bloody fist. She clings on and Greg feels her fingers grasping tighter around his shirt, pulling him closer like he might disappear if she lets go. Greg hears someone come running up the stairs.

"Check him!" Greg shouts as he feels whoever it is gets close enough.

"Sir, is –"

"Check he is dead right now!"

He sees what appears to be Gupta with gun up in her hands climb the last flight of stairs. Donovan gasps again, closes her eyes and starts to shake.

"Come on now!" Greg snaps. "Open your eyes!"

"He's dead!" Gupta calls down.

"The other one?" Greg asks, eyes still focused on Donovan as she forces her eyes open.

"Banks has him in cuffs, taking him out to the car."

"Good. Avery?"

"He's fine. The shot missed him."

Donovan laughs in a weak way. "Lucky."

"Yeah, you keep that up, all right?" Greg smiles and nods. "Joke for once."

Donovan only groans again, scratches the wood floor with her hand not clinging onto Greg. Behind Greg, Gupta runs back down the stairs, shouting at their fellow officers and Greg counts seconds then minutes until he hears the sounds of the ambulance.

Outside of the building, the paramedics carry Donovan on a stretcher carefully down the stone steps to the street. Behind Greg, just inside the building, two more paramedics bring out their perpetrator in a body bag down the last flight of stairs. Greg breathes in and out, his head pounding, blood on his hands and shirt. He wipes his hands absently on a cloth from one the ambulances before letting it fall to the ground in front of him. At the kerb, Banks stands beside one police car with their other suspect inside. It appears the other man is still shouting obscenities. Banks smacks the window and snaps something back at the man.

"Sir?"

Greg turns to Avery beside him now. Avery holds out a large piece of gauze. Greg frowns then Avery points to Greg temple. Greg reaches up and feels wet blood where his head hit the door jam.

He takes the gauze and presses it to his head. "Thank you, Avery."

"The paramedics asked me to tell you to come –"

"Not now."

Avery nods. "Yes, sir."

"Call forensics again and tell them they have two more minutes to get here before I give their job to Gupta."

Avery smirks and nods. "Will do."

Greg looks out over the scene again, Donovan's ambulance driving away, the paramedics closing the door to the ambulance with their dead man, a third police car arrived with officers putting up crime scene tape, and one black car parked across the street with Mycroft Holmes standing beside it. Greg drops his hand with the gauze and blinks slowly. The black car and Mycroft do not disappear. Greg breathes in deeply then tosses the gauze, walks forward, down the steps, and under the crime scene tape.

Greg stops a meter away from Mycroft, no traffic to worry about at this time of night. "What are you doing here?"

"One of my staff informed me of this scene involving your division."

Greg frowns. "And?"

"They…" Mycroft clears his throat. "They said an officer had been shot but they did not know who."

"Sergeant Donovan."

Mycroft smiles in a thin line and nods. "Ah."

"She'll live, if you care."

"She is not the one I was concerned for."

Greg clenches his teeth. "I'm fine."

Mycroft points up and down Greg. "You are covered in blood."

"Most of it isn't mine."

"Most?"

Greg touches his head. "It's stopped."

Mycroft presses his lips together then breathes out. "I simply wanted to know you were all right."

Greg puts his hands on his hips. "Why, Mycroft? We're not a couple anymore."

"Does that mean I can no longer be concerned whether you live or die?" Mycroft suddenly snaps harshly.

Greg stares at Mycroft – tan suit and sky blue tie, no umbrella but hair perfectly in place – and realizes the last time he saw Mycroft in person was December at Mycroft's house.

Greg looks down at the street and runs his tongue over his teeth. "Right, well, I'm not going to die."

He suddenly feels Mycroft touch the cut on his head and Greg jerks back. Mycroft stares at him, hand still out then he pulls back. Greg frowns and clenches his hands against his hips.

Mycroft purses his lips and looks off to the left over the street. "Good." He turns back again, shifting his weight forward and back. "I trust you are well, apart from tonight's incident?"

"I'm just fine."

"Fine?"

"I said fine."

"No trouble fending off the only marginally subtle advances from certain members of your division?"

Greg blinks and growls, "What did you just say?"

"I trust he is a fine _young_ man but I would imagine there are regulations against such fraternizations especially between ranks."

"Are you bloody kidding me? Really?"

"Must be careful where you set your hat, Greg," Mycroft hisses.

"Are you bloody kidding me!" Greg snaps again. "You are saying that to me? Now?" He shifts his weight forward quickly and points at the street between them. "You gave up your right to say anything about my life months ago!"

Mycroft frowns deeply. "Someone needs to ensure you do not look like a fool!"

"You did that plenty well yourself four months ago!"

Mycroft's mouth clicks shut and he runs a hand down his vest. Greg stares hard at Mycroft. His head aches, pressure pounding at multiple points and he probably has a concussion. Mycroft breathes in and out, one hand still against his buttons.

Mycroft steps forward toward Greg. "I should not have –"

"No." Greg waves a hand. "Just shut up for once."

Mycroft drops his hands to his sides and shifts his weight back again. "I truly only wanted to know you were safe."

"Detective Inspector!"

Greg glances back over his shoulder partway then shifts his eyes back to Mycroft. "Appreciate your concern. Now leave."

"Greg…"

"Good bye, Mr. Holmes."

Greg turns around and walks back toward the crime scene.

––––––––––

As Greg looks around his parents' living room he estimates no less than fifty people, accounting for more in the kitchen, dining room and back garden. Who knew Easter parties could be so popular? Then again, Greg's mother has always been a collector of people. She makes friends and acquaintances everywhere she goes and then keeps them forever. His father is oddly the same way except there is always a back story about some 'project' they worked on together, even if that project was just golf.

Greg weaves through the crowd, trying to avoid mingling by just smiling and nodding at people he knows while moving like he has somewhere to go. He would stay in the kitchen if it wasn't also full of people. Of course his mother would not let him assist with the cooking at all. Not that Greg wants cooking to become an escape but it can make for a good excuse when needed.

Greg slides up beside his dad and taps his beer against his father's. "When's the next cruise?"

His father smiles. "We're staying on land for a bit now."

Greg chuckles. "Right, yeah."

"Going to Italy next."

Greg purses his lips. "Italy."

"Get some sun."

"And wine?"

"Your mother liked that idea, of course."

"Well, bring some bottles back."

His father chuckles. "Likely a case."

Then an older couple, Greg thinks he recognizes them but it's hazy, slide up along his father's other side already talking about their trip to Brazil and something about 'incomparable.' Greg takes that as a cue to walk away again. He knows Claire and David are around here somewhere.

"Greg!"

Greg turns at his name and registers the voice a few seconds too late. "Jackie?"

She grins fit to burst and hugs him all at once. Greg nearly drops his beer in surprise and pats her back with one hand. He hasn't seen Jackie, not but two times from a distance, since they broke up some fifteen years ago.

Jackie pulls back and beams at him again – low cut white shirt, violet jumper with buttons undone, black hair nowhere near as big as it was in her youth, and the same deep chocolate eyes – then grips his arm. "Greg, my god, I cannot believe it's you!"

"I…. yes, hi Jackie, you are at my parents' house after all." Greg takes a swig of his beer to buy time. "So, you're here?"

Jackie shrugs. "I was so surprised when your mother invited me."

"Oh?"

"She said something about her missing Christmas, wanting a full house, real party."

"Yeah, they were on a cruise instead."

"A cruise!" Jackie snorts loudly and laughs at the same time. "They've changed. I still remember when your mother asked me what I was doing at thirty not married yet."

Greg shuts his eyes. "Oh god."

Jackie laughs. "And we'd only been dating four months then."

Greg opens his eyes again and forces a smile. "I suspect she was going through a phase."

Jackie laughs once again. "Or she is now."

"Let's hope it sticks." Greg clears his throat. "So, how are you and uh… what was his name?"

"Matt? Oh…" She tilts her head and swirls the liquid in her glass around. "We divorced about…" She blows out a breath of air. "Uh, three years ago now?"

"Oh! Uh, sorry?"

"No, not sorry." She waves a hand. "Well shot of him."

"Congrats then."

"Yeah." She smiles slowly then sips her drink. "I hear you're divorced now too."

Greg clicks his teeth together. "I –"

"Hi!" Claire slams into Greg's side out of nowhere, hand clamping around his forearm. "Nice to see you, Jackie. I need to steal Greg!" Then she drags him away without a chance for Greg or Jackie to say another word.

"Thank you, you just saved me," Greg hisses. "Did you see who that was?"

"I did say her name to her," Claire hisses back as they rush through the people and into the back hall by the lavatory and the small storage closet. "You have a problem."

"I have a problem?"

"It's mum."

Greg frowns and has a sneaking suspicion about what Claire is going to say. "Does this have to do with Jackie?"

"Yes."

"What did she do?"

"Jackie?"

"Mum."

Claire laughs once as if she's out of breath and shakes her head. She bites her lip, takes Greg's beer, drinks some then gives it back. "She invited all of your exes to the party."

"Excuse me?"

"Your exes are here."

"What, all of them?"

Claire shrugs. "Not all exactly but a bunch."

"That can't be –"

"Bonnie."

Greg's mouth drops open. "From training?"

"She's an Inspector now."

Greg puts a hand over his eyes. "Shit."

"The one with the legs, Maggie." Greg gasps, dropping his hand. "Heather with the bleached blond hair."

"Heather Miller? I was fifteen!"

Claire laughs. "Oh, I remember. All you did was snog on the couch."

Greg scoffs. "Because you remember that far back."

"I was twelve! I just wanted to watch some telly! Instead it was a long year of finding blond hairs on all the furniture and locking myself in my room to avoid the pheromones."

Greg frowns. "Because your dating past is so sparkling."

Suddenly David knocks into the both of them, hands grabbing their shoulders and spilling some of Greg's beer on the carpet. "I just saw bloody Daniel in the Kitchen! Daniel!" He turns to Greg. "What is going on?"

If Greg had a mirror he knows he could watch the blood drain from his face at this moment. "Wait, Daniel? Daniel Parks?"

"Yeah, your first."

"Daniel? Beautiful hair, Daniel?" Claire asks.

"And it still is."

"Oh fuck." Greg leans heavily back against the wall. "Bloody hell..."

Claire purses her lips and mutters, "I always kind of wished he'd been my first boyfriend…"

"What is going on?" David asks insistently to Claire.

Claire sighs. "I appears mum has gone and invited all of Greg's past girlfriends and boyfriends to this lovely little Easter get together." She crosses her arms. "At least the single ones it seems." She turns to Greg. "I asked, Bonnie's just been in and out of relationships, all job for her. Don't know about Maggie. Heather is divorced. Jackie also looked pretty well and divorced from what I saw."

"She is," Greg fills in quietly.

"And Daniel?" Claire turns to David.

David blows out a breath of air. "Uh, I don't know. I went in to get some food but the minute I saw him I ran to find you two."

"Paula's not here is she?" Claire asks with a grimace. "I may have sent her some nasty e-mails at one point."

David shakes his head. "No, I know she's still married."

"God, every time we go home it's like we're teenagers again." Greg puts his free hand over his face. "What is wrong with us?"

"With us?" Claire scoffs. "What is wrong with our mother?"

"I'm sure dad encouraged her. You know how all our dating lives always amused him so much." David pats Greg's shoulder. "You could always go hide?"

Greg frowns and stands up straight again. "Someone would find me and that would be worse."

Claire squeezes Greg's hand and nods. "Right. I'm going to go chew mum out."

"I'm going to go get you a beer," David adds taking Greg's nearly empty glass and finishing the last bit himself. "And try to not talk to Daniel at all."

"Good luck," Greg says to both of them.

After they leave, Greg breathes in deeply and walks back around the corner into the living room and the thick of the party. He glances around quickly and does in fact see Heather – still blond hair even if it is now a more natural shade and looking younger than the fifty he knows she is. He does not see Bonnie or Maggie but they must be in another room. Jackie is near the couch and catches his eye as he looks around, giving him a grin and a wave. He smiles back and holds up his empty hands as he moves in the direction of the kitchen. Instead of going into the kitchen, however, he heads for the front door.

Once outside, Greg closes the door behind him and walks around the edge of the front garden. He searches for cigarettes in his trouser pocket even though he knows none are there. He has some in his coat pocket but that is back in the house. There are no hidden cigarette pockets in his sweater unfortunately. Greg slides his empty hands into his trouser pockets and turns around the side of the house, fence and some thick bushes a young Claire used to hide in to his right.

"Greg?"

Greg looks up and sees Shawn leaning against the side of the house, cigarette in hand – wavy blond hair, bit messy in the April wind, and those same beautiful blue eyes. "Shawn, uh, hi… hi." Greg clears his throat and wonders if just turning straight around again would be too awkward.

Shawn smiles a little then looks down at the cigarette in his hand. He looks up again. "Should I not be –"

Greg waves a hand. "No, in fact better that you do."

Shawn chuckles once. "Uh, yeah." He glances at the wall of the house at his back then to Greg. "Saw what I assume your mum did."

Greg frowns. "What?"

"Jackie's in there and some other girl I recognize from photos."

Greg tilts his head. "Bonnie?"

Shawn shrugs and takes a drag of his cigarette. "It's been near twenty years, Greg, you expect me to remember your other exes names?"

Greg laughs and suddenly does not feel awkward. "Sorry, it's just completely…"

"Daft," Shawn finishes for Greg.

"Yeah, completely." Greg walks over and stands beside Shawn, back against the brick of the house. "Claire's gone to give my mum what for."

Shawn huffs. "That'll go well. I don't recall your mum being much of a push over."

"That is the family."

Shawn nods and breathes in some more smoke from his cigarette. He glances at Greg again then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pack. He holds it out to Greg and does not even ask.

"Thanks." Greg takes the pack and pulls out one cigarette.

Shawn trades Greg the pack for his lighter. Greg puts the cigarette between his lips and lights it with two hands. He sucks in deeply then breathes out a slow line of smoke. He hands the lighter back to Shawn. "Thanks."

Shawn nods and crosses his arms over his chest. "All right."

"So…" Greg looks down at the grass and digs a heel into the dirt. "Take it you're single now since that seems to be my mum's MO for this party?"

"Are you asking me or _asking_ me?"

Greg looks up quickly at Shawn. "No, I…" Greg takes another drag of his cigarette. "I only thought you'd been married, or… well, you were with someone?"

Shawn's eyes shift away from Greg to the tall brown fence across from them. "William died about two years ago."

"I'm sorry."

Shawn shrugs. "Isn't everyone?"

"I –"

"No, no," Shawn cuts him off. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't know. It's just… you get tired of hearing the word sorry." He breathes in slowly. "Even now." He turns back to Greg after a moment. "And you, you're divorced." He points a thumb at the house at their backs. "Hence this sneak attack?"

Greg nods and flicks ash off his cigarette into the air. "Yeah."

"But weren't you seeing someone… someone with a funny name?"

"Mycroft?"

"Was it?"

"Yeah, Mycroft, but, uh…" Greg sighs and wonders how many more people he has to tell the same story to. "We split up."

Shawn nods. "Right."

Greg frowns. "How do you know that anyway?"

"My sister and yours are still friends you know."

"Huh." Greg smokes more of his cigarette. "Didn't know that."

"You came with me to Rachel's wedding, remember, and my sister has an interesting hobby of keeping up with what my exes are doing." Shawn rolls his eyes and puts his cigarette between his lips. "I think she sees it as being prepared or some shite."

Greg chuckles. "Glad I never had an older sister."

"Oh yes, because Sir David is so less interested in all aspects of your life."

"Still don't like David?" Greg cocks his head. "After twenty years?"

"I haven't seen him in that time."

"So, yes?"

"He's a cocky bastard."

"Oi, that is my brother."

Shawn shrugs. "I don't have to impress you anymore."

Greg chews the inside of his cheek. "I should be angry but..."

"But I gave you a cigarette?"

Greg laughs and takes another drag. "Sure."

Shawn glances at Greg. "Don't worry; I don't especially dislike your brother." He flashes a smile – big and bright and a shot back to when Greg first met him. "I just like you better."

Shawn finishes his cigarette. He steps forward then kneels down in front of the bushes, turning a rock over and putting the cigarette underneath. Greg smiles but says nothing. Shawn stands and looks at Greg. Greg just shakes his head. Greg takes one last deep suck of his then drops his arm. Shawn holds out his hand and Greg hands him the finished cigarette. Shawn crouches again, stubs it into the dirt then puts it with the other under the rock.

"Look," Shawn says as he stands up again. "I sort of expected your mum was up to something when she invited me but I didn't come with any sort of expectation. I know it's been two years for me but… well, I'm not…"

"I get it."

"I just…" Shawn looks away toward the back garden then turns to Greg again. "I'm just a bit lonely."

Greg nods. "Well, come inside then and we can chat awhile."

Shawn smiles. "All right."

Greg turns and Shawn steps alongside him, the two walking back toward the front of the house. Greg thinks perhaps his mother had a different idea than he thought from the start.

––––––––––

Due to Greg's mother and her interesting choice of party guests, the idea gets into Greg's head: to date or not to date? Thus, in a ridiculous turn of events mostly due to not knowing any single people he does not either work with or have a long term friendship with, Greg asks Anne out for dinner. And in an even odder turn of events, she says yes.

They sit across from each other at a small table with a candle in the middle, though it is not lit at the moment. The table looks like cherry wood and the floors are even darker. Greg felt the restaurant was in the proper price range of 'we were married for twelve years then divorced, holy shit, we're going on a date?'

"I haven't been here before," Anne says – hair long enough to tuck behind her ears but still shorter than when they were married.

"Uh, yeah, me neither." Greg smiles, glances around the restaurant then back again. "Friend told me about it."

"Paul?"

Greg chuckles. "Up his alley, yeah, but no, it was Craig."

She frowns. "That guy you used to play football with on the weekends?"

Greg nods "Yeah, before he had kids then kinda fell off."

"I remember." She smiles. "All girls wasn't it?"

Greg nods again. "Just the two though."

Anne nods back and taps her fingers on her menu. "Right." She clears her throat, looks down at the menu then back up. "Any idea what you're going to get?"

Greg has not looked at the menu. "Uh…" He looks down. "I don't…" He coasts his eyes up and down quickly. "Fish?"

"Is that a question?"

He looks up and frowns. "Well I haven't had a good chance to look yet."

Anne shrugs. "All right." She closes her menu. "I'm going with gnocchi."

The waiter stops at their table with the bottle of white wine Anne ordered when they first arrived. He opens it at the table and pours a little into a glass. He holds it out and Anne takes it before Greg can. She tastes it then puts the glass down on the table.

"Lovely."

The waiter pours them each a glass then re-corks the bottle. "Are we ready to order?"

"Yes," Anne says at the same time Greg says, "no."

They look up at each other then back to the waiter. He smiles. "I'll give you another minute."

Greg's eyes tick to Anne and he raises his eyebrows.

She holds up her hands. "Sorry, you usually pick pretty quickly. Thought you could do it on the fly."

"I had just told you I wasn't sure."

"You said fish."

"In a pinch."

Anne sighs. "Right, sorry." She clears her throat again. "So, I, uh, heard someone in your division got shot?"

Greg clicks his teeth and nods. "Um, yes, Donovan."

"Sally Donovan?"

"Never had another."

"Okay." Anne rolls her eyes. "So, is she going to be all right?"

Greg decides he will just get the fish after all and closes his menu. "Yes." He looks up at Anne. "She's going through recovery and will be out for a while but she will recover. What counts."

Anne nods. "Good."

"And, uh, the hospital, still treating you well?" Greg asks.

"Yes, bit of a raise with the new year."

"Always nice."

She laughs. "I'd say it was good. Thinking of redoing the back garden."

Greg frowns. "It's fine as is."

"Well," she makes an incredulous noise, "it's been 'fine as is' for seven years. It could do with a change."

"Change to what?"

"Look, Greg, I haven't planned it all out yet. I just want to do it. Plus, it's not like you spent much time out there ever anyhow."

"I have no problems with being outside."

She sighs. "You know what I mean."

"All right."

"Are we ready?"

Anne and Greg both snap their heads around in surprise as the waiter reappears. They straighten up, give their orders quickly – gnocchi with the red sauce and the flounder, side of spinach – then hand off their menus. Once the waiter disappears, Anne and Greg pick up their wine glasses at the same time and drink, Anne winning with the larger gulp. Greg wishes he'd ordered a beer, or two.

"So…" Anne touches her fork then pulls her hand off the table. "Single again?"

Greg grips his knife for one second then lays both hands flat on the table. "Yep and you still… again?"

Anne clears her throat. "Uh, well… had a few dates, one man for a while but that, well." She pushes her hair behind her ear more. "Single again, both of us."

"Right."

"Not so bad. That bloke of yours seemed a bit rude the one time I met him anyway."

Greg frowns. "You did sort of catch us by surprise."

She shrugs. "Doesn't hurt to be polite."

"He knew what you did. Made him feel like he shouldn't be."

"What I did?" She points at herself.

Greg crosses his arms. "That teacher?"

Anne sighs and rolls her eyes. "God, because that was all it."

"I didn't say that."

"Oh, of course not, but you still laid it at my door."

"You have to admit –"

"Admit that you moved on pretty quickly afterward too? What about that?"

"At least I waited!"

Anne's mouth clicks closed and she looks away to their right. Greg uncrosses his arms then picks up his wine glass, taking another drink. Anne glances back at her wine glass but does not pick it up yet. Greg puts his glass down and sighs.

Anne looks up at him. "There were reasons we divorced, Greg, and they weren't just because I had an affair or that you moved on right away with someone else. There were problems between us and just because we are both single now does not mean those problems are gone."

Greg breathes in slowly. "You were always the smart one, Anne."

"You're a good man, Greg," Anne says. "We just lost each other along the way."

"We didn't get lost, Anne. We grew apart."

They sit silently for a moment, Anne touching her water glass once.

Finally Anne tilts her head and says, "And I don't think we're growing back."

Greg smiles. "This was a bad idea, wasn't it?"

Anne grins then laughs once. "Such a bad idea!"

Oddly the rest of the evening passes fairly painlessly. Anne talks about her family, how her Christmas went and the New Year's party at her hospital in the children's wing. Greg tells her about the Easter party and how David and Claire are doing. The dinner changes from a date to something like old friends catching up.

When they leave the restaurant, Greg waits for Anne while she hails a cab. Greg drove and one glass of wine isn't going to bother him. He lets his eyes coast over the buildings in front of them, Anne still waving her hand in the air. Then Greg notices the CCTV camera on the pole directly across from them. He thinks he saw it move. Greg frowns. He glances around but sees nothing of particular interest, just restaurants and a few people walking by. He looks up but the camera does not move again. Was he seeing things? Greg clicks his tongue then puts his hand on Anne's back and moves both of them a big step to the left.

"What?" She looks over at him, hand dropping part way.

"Better spot for a cab," Greg says quickly, his eyes still on the camera.

The camera moves to follow them. Greg drops his hand from Anne's back and crosses his arms staring up at the camera. He paces casually to the right again away from Anne. The camera shifts just slightly to the right where Greg moves.

"Are you kidding me?" Greg says stopping in his tracks.

The camera stays still.

Greg pulls out his mobile and texts Mycroft:

_[8:20] Stop it._

He flashes a look at the camera then steps back over to Anne, a cab finally pulled up in front of her. He turns to her and kisses her on the cheek.

She smiles back. "Not so bad a night."

"Once it stopped being a date."

She laughs, he grins then she climbs into the cab and closes the door. The taxi drives off leaving Greg alone. He glances up again but the CCTV camera is no longer pointed at him.

––––––––––

"So?"

"I'm sorry?"

"So, here we are?"

"Yes."

Greg sighs. "And we've both ordered our sandwiches, it's been five minutes and we've sat here in silence."

Mycroft clears his throat and shifts in his chair.

"You asked me to have lunch, remember?" Greg says.

Mycroft sighs. "Of course."

"Then I repeat, 'So?'"

Mycroft pulls at the lapels of his jacket and cocks his head. "I realized perhaps I was being too standoffish of late and was perhaps reacting…" he frowns, "Irregularly. There is no reason we cannot maintain civil conversation and an amicable relationship."

Greg frowns. "I said near the same thing a couple months ago and you all but told me to go to hell."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Don't be dramatic."

"But you did."

"I am sure I did not say anything near 'go to hell.'"

"All right, more along the lines of 'why bother' but shouldn't I ask you that question now?"

"I also told you I did not desire us to never speak again after that, did I not?"

Greg opens his mouth then closes it again with a sigh. He turns his water glass in place and nods. "Yeah, you did say that."

Mycroft indicates the table with a wave of his hand. "And here we are."

"Right." Greg taps his fingers on the table. "Civil."

Mycroft tilts his head. "I see you have decided to 'put yourself out there,' as they say."

Greg frowns. "I thought you wanted to be civil?"

"I see nothing uncivil. Unless you are planning on trying a dating website; I hear they bring out some of the most unsavory propositions."

Greg sighs heavily. "What is this, Mycroft? Really?"

Mycroft frowns. "What is what?"

Greg leans forward over the table. "You refuse to be with me but then get upset when I try to move on?"

Mycroft frowns further. "That is ridiculous."

"It's not."

"And yet you call 'moving on' a step back toward your wife?"

"Ex-wife."

"An important distinction, is it not?"

Greg grits his teeth. "I'm not taking a 'step back' toward my ex-wife and even if I were, it's not your problem anymore."

Mycroft scoffs.

"Do you miss me?" Greg asks suddenly.

Mycroft blinks. "I…" He clears his throat. "You are right in front of me."

"You know what I was asking."

"We are simply having lunch."

"Sorry, does lunch mean you can't answer a question?"

Mycroft picks up his water glass. "This is ridiculous."

"You like that word."

"Why are you asking me if I miss you?" Mycroft snaps. "What would that really mean? What do you hope to glean? I asked you to lunch to see you, is that not enough?"

"It would mean something to me."

Mycroft sighs. "Must everything be an interrogation with you?"

Greg holds up a finger. "I asked you one question."

"I simply wish to have lunch."

"I don't want to have lunch. I want you to answer my question."

"No," Mycroft says.

"'No,' you don't miss me?"

Mycroft frowns. "No, I don't need to play such a game with you, Greg."

"I'm trying to move on, Mycroft. I tried to make it easier. I apologized. Now it is your turn to make it easier."

Mycroft lays a hand on the table. "And just what have I done to make it so difficult for you?"

Greg shakes his head and pushes his chair back from the table. He stands up then leans down over the table. "I thought you didn't want to play a game?" Then he stands up straight again.

"Wait," Mycroft grips Greg's wrist as he starts to walk away. "Please."

Greg breathes in slowly then looks down at Mycroft again. "Just let me move on, all right, Mycroft?"

Mycroft waits one beat then releases Greg's wrist. Greg walks out of the café.

––––––––––

Greg stands in front of his filing cabinet searching for a cold case. A name in one of their current murder cases rang a bell to Greg though he is not quite sure which case it connects to. He knows it was not a case they solved, so it should be in this drawer. Then again, the 'bell' might be leading Greg the wrong way.

Peters has been gone for a week. When Greg got the transfer request it did not explicitly say if it was from Peters himself, a request from another division head or something else. They had a small party, beers at the pub, and a few presents from the whole team. Regardless of the source, Peters appeared to be fine with the change and moved to the Serious and Organized Crime division. Peters will do well, Greg knows, but he cannot help wondering exactly who put in for that transfer.

"Bloody Mycroft," Greg mutters to himself because, seriously, it cannot be a coincidence.

Greg pulls out one file and flips through it quickly – child murder, ten years old, never enough evidence. No, not the name he is thinking of. Greg puts the file back in place and flips through a few more folders.

"Inspector?"

Greg glances at the door and sees Bell. "Yeah?"

"Just got back from seeing Sally."

"Oh!" Greg smiles. "She doing all right?"

Bell chuckles. "Starting to chafe at the bit a little over still being on rest and recovery."

Greg shakes his head. "Bullets can do that to you."

"Oh yeah, but looks like she's coming along well."

"Good." Greg points at Bell. "We need her back."

Bell grins. "Yes, sir." Then she backs up a step and turns away out of his door.

Greg looks back at his files and pulls out another – two drowning victims that did not appear to be suicides but had little else to go on beyond that.

"Keller?" Greg mutters at his flips through the pages. "No, Weller..." He sighs. "No, that's not it."

He closes the file and puts it back in place. He remembers the interview with the wife of the one victim; she stared right through him the whole time. Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his face. Cold cases always make him tired.

Greg's desk phone rings. He steps backward around the chair in front of his desk then reaches over to grab the receiver. "Lestrade."

"Hi, Greg."

Greg smiles and steps back toward his filing cabinet, stretching the cord. "Hello, Molly, how's things?"

She laughs politely. "Fine. Plenty of dead bodies down here." She clears her throat. "Well, I mean –"

"Got it."

She laughs again. "Right, yes. I had sort of an odd question for you."

"Odd?"

"It's just, well. You see, I was assisting on a case, had a new body that was actually connected to an old case."

Greg frowns. "My case?"

"Your case?"

"Looking up an old case connection too, least I hope so."

"Oh, no... I don't think it's the same..."

Greg frowns at the air then flips past another file in his cabinet. "Anyway."

"Right! Well, I needed to find something out and had to go back over some past post mortems, there was a funny one with a liver missing and the dissection was harder because the level of decay –"

"Molly, could you skip to the point?"

"Oh! Sorry, yes." She clears her throat. "Have you spoken to Anderson recently?"

"Anderson?"

"Only I tried to call him, twice, and haven't been able to reach him. I know he's off the force now but I asked his friend Carl in toxicology and he hadn't heard from Anderson in a month and I heard he never went to see Sally when she was in the hospital, thought that a bit off. So, I was... well I was wondering if you'd heard from him?"

Greg pulls out the Thompson file then puts it down on top of the filing cabinet. He turns around back toward his desk, hand on his hip. "No, haven't actually."

"Oh."

Greg frowns. "How about I phone him and I'll let you know, yeah?"

"All right. I think I'm just worried about him what with... well, how he took Sherlock's..." She clears her throat. "Uh, Sherlock's death."

Greg huffs. "Don't I know it."

"He really shouldn't be taking it this hard. It's not..." She trails off for a moment then Greg hears her breathe in deeply. "Never mind, thank you for... for calling him."

"You can thank me after I talk to him."

"Right."

"Bye, Molly."

Greg reaches over and clicks the line off with one finger. He pulls his mobile out and pulls up Anderson's number. He holds the phone receiver between his ear and his shoulder then dials Anderson's number on his desk phone. He sticks his mobile back in his jacket pocket as the phone rings. The line rings five times and then the answering machine connects.

_You have reached Philip Anderson. Personal calls may leave a message. Inquiries or information regarding Sherlock Holmes may be directed to sherlockholmeslives or . Thank you._

The phone beeps and Greg forgets for two seconds to say anything.

"Uh, Anderson... It's Lestrade, you've..." He clears his throat. "Hoping to talk to you. Seems everyone is having some trouble getting in contact with you. Call me back."

Greg puts the receiver back in its cradle and stares at it for two beats. He frowns and shakes his head. "What the hell, Anderson..."

Is Greg the only one not going mad for some reason right now? Then again, his 'not going mad' might be debatable.

Greg turns back around to his file cabinet. He picks up the file he left on top and opens it. The name hits him right away, three lines down on the page: Margaret Tell

Greg grins. "Gotchya."

––––––––––

Greg, David, and Claire sit around Greg's kitchen table moved into the living room. Greg's coffee table is pushed underneath the window out of the way. On their table are several beer bottles in various states of empty or not as well as playing cards.

"Got any threes?"

"Go fish, Claire."

Claire groans and picks up a card from the deck.

"I still say we should have played poker. Aren't we adults?"

Greg and Claire both scoff at David then laugh. Claire and Greg knock their bottles together then chug more beer.

Claire snorts. "Out of any of us to say 'aren't we adults?'" She raises her eyebrows.

David pouts. "Seriously, poker is fun."

"Aw!" Claire and Greg mock groan.

David holds his hand of cards up in front of his face and raises an eyebrow over the top at the two of them. "I suppose I will just have to crush you both in this high stakes game of Go Fish!"

"Except you're losing, you don't have any books yet."

David pulls his cards down again and frowns. "Just because it's your birthday does not mean you get to cheat." David narrows his eyes and points at Greg with his two books on the table. "I know what you're up to."

Claire gasps. "Oh! Yes, hold on!"

She puts her cards down and jumps up from the table. Once she scampers out of the room, David reaches over and lifts up the edge of her cards.

"And now who's cheating, eh?"

"Shh." David lets the cards fall back down. "You saw nothing."

"And this is why we don't play poker with you."

David gasps and puts a hand on his chest. "I am offended!"

"Ow, shit!" They hear from the kitchen.

David and Greg both glance in that direction then look at each other again. David purses his lips but when they don't hear screams or the rushing sound of fire they both smile. David picks up his beer and drinks the last of it, sliding the empty bottle to the side with the others.

"So, forty-nine."

"Lovely number."

"Eh." David shrugs. "Not a bad year."

"Guess we'll see eh?"

"First year you've started single in a while, yeah?"

Greg frowns. "Technically I was single the start of last year too."

"I meant age year and last year does not really count as single. You were already on the Mycroft gift wagon and one breath away from swank restaurant dates."

Greg rolls his eyes and taps the edge of his cards on the table. "Right, sure."

David bites his lip. "How you doing, by the way?"

"With forty-nine?" David gives him a withering look. Greg sighs and touches his beer bottle though he does not pick it up. "All right, the same as last time you asked."

"Yeah? Well, you have had near six months now." David holds up a hand then points at Greg. "And our dear mother tried to hook you up again."

Greg groans.

David chuckles. "And now it is birthday time and I think..." David turns to the doorway.

Greg turns as well and sees Claire standing there holding a cake. She grins. "Happy birthday!"

Greg laughs at the lit four and nine candles on top. Claire grins then walks over to the table. David pushes aside all the cards and Claire puts the cake down in front of Greg.

"All right, we won't sing," David says, "but you have to blow those candles out with the customary one breath."

"Think I can manage."

"They're not trick candles," Claire clarifies.

David cocks his head. "Are they not?"

Greg leans forward and blows hard, both candles out and smoking immediately. David and Claire give him an overly enthusiastic round of clapping. Greg inclines his head and does a twirl of his hand.

"Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all night."

David snorts. "It is your flat."

Claire runs out of the room then returns a moment later with new beers and three small plates in her hand, silverware on top. "And now, we feast!"

Greg removes the candles, cuts the cake and serves each of them a slice as Claire opens them all new beers.

Claire holds up her beer. "To Greg, the best second older brother."

"And best younger brother," David adds.

"That any sister –"

"Or brother."

"Could have."

"To Greg," Claire and David say together.

They clack their three beers together above the cake then drink in a synchronized gulp. Claire puts her bottle down then goes right for the chocolate cake, swooping a bite into her mouth. David raises his eyebrows and chuckles at her. She tosses her hair at him then eats a second large bite.

Greg smiles a little and taps his plate with his fork. "Thanks, both of you."

"I didn't make the cake," Claire admits, "and neither did David."

"Shh!" David hushes around his fork.

"No, I mean... been a bit of a rough couple years for me what with Anne and Mycroft and Sherlock. I had a divorce, a death, and then dumped again all in year and... Just, with all that I..." He cuts a piece of the cake off with his fork. "I always have you two here for me."

"Aw, Greg, I think I'm tearing up," David says and bites his lip, eyelashes fluttering.

"My heart just beat faster," Claire says.

"Can we snuggle?" David starts to scoot his chair around closer to Greg. "We should snuggle."

"I want to be the biggest spoon." Claire stands up and hugs Greg from behind. "Ah, so warm."

Greg laughs and holds up his hands. "All right, all right."

"No, don't censor yourself." David knocks his knees into Greg's and hugs his arm. "Shh, shh, we are here to hold you."

"I am going to kill you both," Greg says, still laughing.

"We'll just take you with us then," Claire says.

"Party in hell."

Greg laughs even harder. He slides his arm around David's back, pulling him close and leans his cheek on Claire's arm. "I hate you both so much."

"We hate you too," they say together.

"So much," David adds, ruffling Greg's hair with one hand.

"Oh my god," Claire pulls back. "We should go to karaoke and make you sing about how much you love us!"

Greg snaps his head around to look at her and nearly chokes. "What?"

"Or go play darts, put our faces on the board!" David says standing up. He turns in a circle looking around Greg's flat. "Why don't you have darts here? Or pool! Pool. There should be pool." David puts his hands on his hips. "What kind of bachelor pad is this?"

Greg laughs hard again, nearly knocking his plate off the table. Claire points in the corner, saying something about a jute box. David claps his hands, mimes darts and suggests a stage for the imaginary karaoke set. Claire walks back and forth, gesticulating and keeps saying 'add a bar!' David suddenly picks Claire up, swinging her around while pointing at Greg, declaring the three them the stars of the Lestrade bachelor stage. Claire laughs and starts to sing, 'just the three of us, we can make if we try,' over David's shoulder.

Greg laughs and laughs, stands up and claps his hands, toasts his siblings with his beer and does not think of anything– not loneliness or loss – nothing, except how happy he is right in that moment.

––––––––––

Greg only has to knock on Mycroft's door once before it opens. Mycroft does not look surprised to see him.

"Hi."

"Hello, Greg."

"It's been a year."

Mycroft breathes in slowly. "Amazing how the time passes."

Greg laughs lightly. "I know what I said when we last saw each other and I know you keep your feelings all in there." He points vaguely at Mycroft's chest. "But I wanted to come by, just in case."

"Thank you. I am sure Sherlock would appreciate your concern for me."

"Really?"

"Probably not."

They smile at each other.

"So, are you doing all right?"

Mycroft nods. "I am all right. Anniversaries as significant in relation to tragic events are merely a construct due to marking time when really it is just another day and loss does not compartmentalize."

"Trying to talk yourself around the idea, are you?"

"The idea of a year?"

"A year without your brother."

Mycroft clears his throat. "Perhaps."

Greg nods. "You're allowed to miss him."

"I am fine, Greg, truly. You need not worry."

"Okay, I just thought I should check."

Mycroft steps back from the door way. "Would you care to come in, I could fix us some tea?"

"Do you want me to or are you just being polite?"

"Company is not always a burden and we are on civil terms at the very least, are we not?"

"I hope civil at least."

"Well?"

Greg presses his lips together tightly and does not move from the stoop. "I don't know if this is going to work, Mycroft."

"This?"

"This." He gestures between them. "We were never friends before, barely acquaintances. We never talked about politics or football. Everything we did together was intimate; we don't have anything less to fall back on."

Mycroft purses his lips. "I recall many a restaurant which I would not categorize as intimate."

"I'm talking about the things that mattered, Mycroft, dinners at my flat, two weeks in Italy, dancing in black tie and standing under an umbrella in the rain… waking up with you in the morning."

Mycroft swallows and watches Greg, though he does not say anything.

"Look, I don't… I don't want to lose you all together," Greg says quietly, "but maybe it's too late."

"I am right here," Mycroft says and his voice has dropped as well.

Greg watches Mycroft, those eyes which always look so beautiful when he really smiles. "But as what, Mycroft?"

Mycroft bites his lip but does not look away. "I don't know."

Greg sighs. "Me either."

Mycroft steps forward again, hand on his door. "Well, I… I suppose if you are not coming in then…"

"I'm glad you're doing all right," Greg says.

Mycroft smiles. "And I hope you are as well."

"I think I am."

They stand in silence for a moment, both looking at each other, standing close yet leagues apart. Greg leans closer and Mycroft does not move away. Greg holds his breath then steps back, "Good bye, Mycroft."

He turns around and walks down the steps. Greg hears Mycroft breathe out slowly behind him, a whispered, "good bye," following him as he does not look back.

Greg does not see Mycroft again until more than a year later when Sherlock comes back from the dead.


End file.
